


A Goose Quill Dipped in Venom

by Polyphony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Case Fic, Character Death, First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-20
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 12:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyphony/pseuds/Polyphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, is called in to a very ordinary although brutal murder. Something is badly out of tune with the whole scenario and Sherlock finds himself becoming more and more obsessed with the crime - and also with the victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story has completely eaten up all my spare time recently and I'm still not completely satisfied with it. I've had a ball writing it and I love all these characters - they're a gift to a writer. Thanks and the usual disclaimers (which I forgot about until now) to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat together with apologies for taking such liberties with their creations. End notes take care of the other influences.

Baker Street at ten pm on a freezing winter’s night was much the same as it always was, that is to say, hectic. Crammed with people going about their business, bursting with life and activity, Baker Street was redolent with purpose and achievement.

From an open window in the modest flat above an unpretentious little sandwich shop, Mozart played on a rather good violin poured out into Baker Street like a flash flood. In the bedroom of the flat below, an elderly lady stirred and turned over in her sleep but did not wake.

Hours later, Mozart had morphed into Vivaldi, Mendelssohn and currently Bach. Sherlock Holmes played on, even though the street outside had quietened, the people now drifting home, tired and played out.

Sherlock played on, his body no longer the biological container for his brain but one complete, perfect resonator for the music, in this case, the Chaconne from the Partita in D. He played, the double-stopping jarring through his bones, arcing through his body, through the soles of his feet like so much lightning electricity. He was on the sixth consecutive rendition without so much as pausing for breath.

“Bravo! Well done indeed.” 

The tone was mildly sardonic and the slow handclap perfectly timed, responding to the end of the work but forestalling a further repetition. Sherlock’s bow paused mid-arc, changing trajectory to sink limply at his side as he turned an expressionless mask on the intruder.

“Still able to tear the heartstrings of the unwary, I see, although a little variation to the programme at this late stage would be beneficial to the ears of your listeners.”

The newcomer bared his teeth in something that might have passed for a smile at another time or place and moved purposefully through the debris towards the open window.

“Getting a little chilly in here,” he remarked, closing the sash firmly and rubbing his hands together.

The temperature had dropped like a stone over the past hour. Sherlock had scarcely noticed, but it was hardly a surprise, it being the middle of January. He lowered the violin stiffly and climbed off the coffee table, his breath making white clouds in the frigid air. He stared at the intruder impassively.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he demanded. 

The other man’s smile did not falter in the slightest. “Visiting you in your new abode,” was the smooth reply. He turned around on his heel, taking in every detail of the living room.

Mycroft Holmes was immaculate as usual in Saville Row bespoke pinstripe tailored precisely to fit his (currently) slender physique. Sherlock knew that his brother owned an unspecified number of identical suits, all carefully tailored to fit whichever phase of his yo-yo dieting he happened to be in at any given time. Mycroft pointed the tip of his umbrella at a skull nestling innocently on the mantle between a Japanese folding knife and what looked like a Medieval manuscript.

“Still using him as a paperweight, I see,” he remarked. “I’ve always thought it rather disrespectful.”

“Yes, well, you never could mind your own business, could you?” Sherlock pushed the violin carefully into its case, fitting the bow into the lid and slamming it shut with elaborate negligence just to make the point.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock repeated. “Look, I did everything you wanted; I’m clean, I’m on the wagon, I’m over the age of majority. I have no further need of a nursemaid, Mycroft.”

“Of course not,” the other replied mildly, “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it. I was merely curious about your new home,” he poked at something too close to his polished shoe with the tip of his furled umbrella, “and as I was passing I decided to drop in.”

“It’s two thirty am,” sneered Sherlock. 

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed,” he replied. “Clearly Bach is apposite for all times of day. I hope your neighbours agree; not to mention your landlady. I brought you a present.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go away, Mycroft,” he said tiredly.

“It’s in the kitchen,” his brother persisted. He glanced around the living room one more time. “Perfectly suitable,” he remarked, nodding faintly, “Now do try to avoid being evicted, Sherlock, there’s a good chap. It causes no end of trouble for the legal department.”

Mycroft nodded pleasantly and turned on his heel to exit the flat as silently as he had entered it. Sherlock scowled mightily at his brother’s departing back with little or no effect. Curiosity winning out over resentment, he stalked into the kitchen to find his jumble of experimental materials had been carefully moved to one side of the kitchen table and in their place was a small tray containing milk, sugar, a Chatsworth filter teapot, a packet of English Breakfast loose tea from the London Tea Company and two china mugs decorated with illustrations taken from the Bayeux tapestry. Sherlock made a sound of disgust but examined one of the mugs with a thoughtful expression. He shook his head and returned it to the tray.

 

The temperature had dropped another three degrees Celsius and ice was forming on the inside of the windows at 221B. Wrapped in his great coat, curled in on himself at one end of the sofa against the cold, Sherlock was reading a treatise on Baroque clarinets. His bare feet stuck out from over-long sweat pants. A clear fluid dripped from an array of glass tubes into two buckets situated in the hearth. Periodically, he would look up from his reading to check the liquid levels against the time on his phone.

“I thought you only moved in yesterday afternoon!” The visitor’s voice rasped with years of cigarette smoking and shouting over loud noise. It also betrayed its origins in the Estuary region of Kent. “Did you know your front door was left on the latch?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes: _interfering brothers_. “Good morning to you too, Inspector,” he growled through the thick wool of his collar. “Do come in.”

Detective Inspector Lestrade knew his business. His expression did not even flicker as he crossed the threshold, carefully avoiding the unidentified piles of flotsam and jetsam. Peering gloomily at the empty grate, he beat his hands against his upper arms and shivered. Something caught on the leg of his trousers; he skipped reflexively away.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he muttered, narrowly avoiding a skewering on a jagged glass edge. “Why didn’t you leave that stuff in the bins at your previous place?”

“The Council cleansing department won’t take radioactive waste – I asked them,” Sherlock relied waving an indifferent hand.

“Radioactive…?” Lestrade bit back on an expletive and shifted his feet, ignoring the way the carpet sucked at the soles of his shoes. 

Sherlock looked at him without enthusiasm. “I assume,” he began, enunciating slowly and carefully after a moment of silence,” that you have some reason for calling at this ridiculous hour – other than to remark upon the décor, of course.”

Lestrade gave his surroundings a final once-over and shook his head. He took out his notebook.

“Murder, Hampstead, shotgun,” he said succinctly. 

“Sounds boring,” Sherlock replied, returning to his book. 

Lestrade sighed. “Will you come?” he asked doggedly. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said. “Something you don’t like, am I right?”

Lestrade nodded. “It just – feels wrong,” he said reluctantly.

Sherlock made a disgusted sound. “Hunches are for amateurs,” he said.

Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. “I know it’s the middle of the night, Sherlock,” he persisted, “but will you come?” 

Sherlock sighed petulantly. “Who’s on forensics?” he asked.

Lestrade gave a faint grimace. “It’s Anderson,” he replied. 

Sherlock made a brief sound of disgust. “He won’t work with me,” he said.

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” Lestrade replied. “Will you come?” 

Sherlock rose abruptly from the sofa.

“Not in a police car,” he said, moving rapidly out of the room and down the short corridor.

Lestrade took an involuntary step backwards as Sherlock whirled past. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” he muttered, then shouted “and put some bloody clothes on!” 

“I’ll be right behind you.” 

The words floated back along the landing.

“You don’t know the address.”

“Who says I don’t?”

 

Tennyson Gardens was a leafy avenue with good street lighting damped down by freezing fog which reached cold, clammy tendrils around the moon, the car headlight and the exposed skin of the unwary; Lestrade shivered. Sherlock strode confidently ahead prowling like a sniffer dog. He stopped by a red brick Victorian pile, exquisitely converted and expensively decorated. Despite the late hour, it was lit up like a Christmas tree. 

Lestrade nodded at the open front door. “That’s it,” he said unnecessarily. 

Sherlock ignored him, sweeping up the neat path, the stone steps and into the marble-tiled vestibule. Immediately, he stopped, holding up a gloved hand to prevent Lestrade from following him.

 _A faint odour, almost imperceptible;_ Sherlock knew he could identify it given time. 

_Narrow, Victorian windowsills, newly painted; new timber on the windows, must have rotted away, too far gone to rescue – house was allowed to fall into ruin at some stage; stained glass, expertly restored, much of it replaced with modern materials; marble tiling original but treated for porosity – that’s the smell. Staircase completely replaced_ – Sherlock frowned. _Another staircase added leading down to what used to be the cellar, now a luxury basement flat, no doubt; lights blazing on the first floor but only one on the ground, that in the room leading off to the left. No lights in the basement._

Sherlock took off up the staircase like a greyhound out of the gate.

“Oi!” Lestrade protested, “Sherlock! It’s a crime scene, get suited up or Forensics will have your arse in a sling!” 

The heel of Sherlock’s Edward Green bespoke shoe disappeared around the turn of the stairs. Swearing under his breath, Lestrade threw on his own protective gear and marched up the stairs. Sherlock was on the threshold of the relevant apartment, pale eyes snapping like twin camera lenses as he rolled on a pair of latex gloves.

_Now this is something else; stylish, expensive, newly restored like the rest of the house. Brass fittings on the front door; custom-made William Morris wallpaper, hand painted; that cupboard isn’t original but it’s made out of reclaimed timber to fool the unwary; china shade on the overhead lamp throws out a dim, diffused light – a tinted bulb, or just low wattage? Carpet, fitted, very dense weave, expensive; feels very close and cocooned in here, all the sound damped by the carpet and the woven hangings on the walls, Chinese work, if I’m not mistaken, and when am I ever? A very nice oil painting – old fashioned style but recent work with an antique gilt frame – should be able to clean off the blood spray without too much damage. Not so sure about the wall around it though._

Lestrade held himself perfectly still knowing that if he so much as twitched, Sherlock would snarl like a cat. His throat closed momentarily at the sight of the corpse – headless, missing most of one shoulder and upper arm, completely drained of blood – even though this was his second sighting of it. He watched the other man take in every detail of the crime scene with the precision of a camera.

_Towelling bathrobe and not much else; ready for bed then, asleep? Killer must have been known to him- far too late to open the door to a stranger; a lover, perhaps? No nightclothes – was this habitual? How efficient is the heating system? An old building, but a very high quality conversion. No reliable data as yet, preliminary reports will tell. Faint floral/fruity odour – shampoo/soap/perfume? Not a man’s fragrance. Not much doubt about the cause of death; must have been point-blank range, two shots in quick succession, both slightly to the left and below the face – some serious animosity here, a desire to obliterate. Splatter pattern consistent with no 7 or 7½ shot, 28 gauge –_

Sherlock snapped his fingers at Lestrade until the other produced a cheap plastic biro from an inner pocket, then he crouched to poke at a spent shell with its end.

Sherlock sat back on his haunches and frowned at the corpse. Lestrade watched as he methodically catalogued every detail, committing it carefully to memory, deliberately detaching himself from the horror of the coagulating lake of blood, the burst of gelatinous brain tissue and fragments of bone, the pathetic waste of something that until the last few hours had been a living, breathing person.

“Oh, Jesus!” 

Lestrade more felt than heard the disgusted murmur from his chief forensics officer. Anderson glared at Sherlock’s back with intense dislike but the weariness round his eyes and the pallor of his skin told its own story: this had not been a pleasant experience for any of his team.

“It’s bad enough here without this freak gloating over the remains,” he spat at Lestrade.

“If you can’t stand the heat, Anderson, get out of the kitchen,” Sherlock intoned without missing a beat. He stared unblinkingly at a sticky patch of drying blood near the bedroom door.

“Oh, come on!” The man flailed, trying to gather the shreds of his dignity. “No one walks in on a body with its head blown off at close range only two hours ago without being briefly reminded of their last meal – it’s only natural.”

“It may well be natural for you,” Sherlock replied, examining the skirting board minutely, “but fortunately for the rest of us, my own mind is capable of holding on to more than one idea at a time. And it’s three hours.”

Sherlock’s tone was haughty and dismissive and Lestrade laid a heavy hand on Anderson’s shoulder as he watched the man ball his fists.

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” he said. “Now have you got anything or are you just passing the time down there?” 

“What do you mean, three hours?” Anderson spat in outrage. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Sherlock glanced briefly up at Lestrade and rolled his eyes. He reached for what remained of the body’s left arm and rolled up the cuff, displaying an analogue watch.

“Stopped,” he said, “at twenty six minutes past midnight.”

“Battery could have run out,” protested Anderson, “Could have stopped at any time.” Sherlock nodded seriously.

“Yes, it could,” he replied, “but considering that this is a kinetic watch and doesn’t contain a battery, I think it rather unlikely, don’t you? The electrical generator was smashed by a stray pellet – that’s how I know the time of death.” 

Sherlock glanced briefly at the right arm; the cuff of the bathrobe sat a good three inches above the man’s wrist. He tried to tug the cuff down, but the fabric sprang back to its original position as soon as he loosed his hold. Sherlock rose to his feet and turned to Lestrade.

“Alright, what have you got?” The older man stood, arms folded across his chest; Sherlock ran an absent finger across his bottom lip.

“Victim is male, late thirties, around 10 stone, good level of fitness,” he began in a low, intense monotone. “The calluses of a firearms user and his muscular development indicate current membership of the armed forces or very recently discharged. Tan lines at the wrists and neck but not chest or arms tell me recent service abroad not recreation. The opulent decoration of this apartment together with its exclusive location, however, suggest an independent income – the rent must be expensive, the value, if he owns it, immense. He may have been on leave of absence – not enough data yet. Rank is not clear from the body itself, but the doctor’s bag carefully stowed in the hall cupboard should give us a better lead. Any CCTV footage?”

“No,” Lestrade shook his head in frustration. “Power cut earlier in the evening took out the computer. It’s only just got back online.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock inclined his head as though this had been expected, “Street cameras?” 

Lestrade nodded. “Some pictures,” he said, “but not enough to go on. It appears the victim was accompanied by a woman; that much we can see, but we can’t get any detail.” Sherlock nodded.

“Of course, the rain,” he replied. 

Anderson frowned. “Rain?” he queried. 

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “Do you have nothing better to do?” he snapped. “Oh no, of course – you don’t. Rain, Anderson; you know, that wet stuff that falls from the sky and makes us cold, damp and uncomfortable. We try to avoid it so we wear raincoats and use umbrellas. When it’s cold as well as damp, we wear hoods and hats and turn our faces down, away from the rain. It makes picking up useful images on CCTV much more difficult.” 

Anderson shook his head. “I just didn’t remember it raining last night, that’s all,” he murmured shrugging. 

Sherlock glowered at him then turned to his phone and tapped out a brief text. “Now I’ve given it all to you,” he said with barely concealed impatience, “what have you got on him by more conventional means?”

“You’re right, of course,” replied Lestrade, “He was an army doctor invalided out of Afghanistan fourteen months ago – came under attack from enemy fire while administering trauma medicine in the field; honourable discharge. Apparently he landed a job with some media company. He is survived by one sister, a solicitor with a central London practice dealing with marine and salvage, lives in Tooting with her civil partner.”

Sherlock just looked at him; Lestrade shrugged. “Downstairs neighbour,” he explained, “Donovan’s still talking to her, but we got the relevant facts.”

“Do we have a name for the victim?”

“Yes – John Watson.”


	2. Chapter 2

In a matter of hours, Forensics would scour the apartment, Sherlock knew, taking away every last trace of the late Doctor John Hamish Watson from carpet to scraped paint flakes to his financial records, meticulously stored in labelled box files. He strode into the study without hesitation and stood in the centre.

_I thought this might be where he lives, but no, it’s not. It’s more like a library than an office; book-lined walls; studded leather armchairs; cast-iron grate – regularly in use, by the looks of it. Over-large mahogany desk – not antique but good repro – with a blotter. Interesting; not many people have blotters, particularly such opulent ones. Mont Blanc pens, expensive vellum writing paper, Sony desktop computer with sound system built into the desk. Ergonomic keyboard, pristine, almost new except that model hasn’t been available for more than a year now. Drawer containing headphones, wireless mouse, staplers etc. Inkjet printer and paper on the shelves to the left; assorted DVDs and a couple of PC games; letter tray with two bills marked “paid”, one to a medical supplier – he must have had need to replenish his medical bag for whatever reason - the other to a specialist wine merchant. In the same tray, a letter from someone who signs themselves “affectionately, Harry” –shortened form of Henry or Harriet?_

“Friend, d’you reckon?” suggested Lestrade, still shadowing Sherlock, probably protecting the crime scene from contamination. 

Absently, the other man shook his head. “Sister,” he said succinctly, then at Lestrade’s raised eyebrow, “Look at the tails on the “y”s and “g”s. Stronger loops than I would expect, I grant you, but not a man’s handwriting. And even in these socially advanced times, a woman is far more likely to sign herself “affectionately”. Contacted her yet?” 

Lestrade grimaced. “Crikey, give us a chance,” he whined. “It’s four in the morning. It’s not like she can help him now.”

Sherlock made no reply but narrowed his eyes at the computer screen brushing his fingers lightly over the surface.

“The techies’ll get on to that just as soon as Forensics have dusted it,” Lestrade said. 

Sherlock looked at him and smirked. “For all the good it’ll do them,” he replied. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lestrade’s ears almost visibly pricked up. Sherlock ignored him, sweeping out of the study into the living room. 

_Large flat-screen TV with Blu-ray and 3D; surround sound nicely set up; understated sofas, Persian rugs; more bookcases, this time with coffee-table art and photography books, an exquisite Italian gouache landscape over the fireplace._

Sherlock moved over to study the painting more closely.

“Somewhere warm?” demanded Lestrade, coming to stand next to him.

“Amalfi coast,” replied Sherlock still drinking it in. “See the smoke? That’s supposed to be Vesuvius – it’s a 19th Century piece. Unsigned but the quality is extraordinary.”

Sherlock moved away and frowned at several framed photographs, making a quiet noise of interest. 

Lestrade peered over his shoulder. “Well, there we are,” the inspector said heavily as Sherlock picked up the central one for a closer look. “That’s our man, I guess. Captain John Watson MD; there’s no mistaking him now.” 

Thoughtfully, Sherlock turned the photograph into the light, his face grave. John Watson was blue-eyed with sun-bleached hair, tanned, fair skin and an open, friendly manner. He was grinning joyfully into the camera, sporting obviously new Captain’s pips and making a half-aborted gesture at the photographer. The background was bright sunlight and parched desert. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed – there was something familiar about the composition and the spontaneity of the subject… He glanced down at the bottom of the frame. In tiny gold leaf, he read “Alexander Murray, Grosvenor Street Studios, copyright 2009”. 

_Hmmm._

“God, she’s right!” Sergeant Sally Donovan suddenly jostled Sherlock’s elbow as she craned her neck to see. “It is him: I thought she was joking, sir!” 

She snatched the photograph from Sherlock’s hands and thrust it at Lestrade who took a cursory look and shrugged.

“Am I supposed to recognise him, Donovan?” he said, “What is he – some kind of film star or other?” Lestrade’s tone was ironic and he scrubbed a hand wearily over his face.

“Well, not a star, sir,” Donovan amended, “and not in film, but he’s got a health slot on daytime; had it since September – I watched it when I was off with ‘flu over Christmas. It was quite good. Mrs Russell, the neighbour, she told me all about it. Thought I would have recognised him, she said. I didn’t tell her why that wasn’t going to happen.”

A brief, awkward silence followed Donovan’s comment. Sherlock abruptly lost interest and turned his attention back to the shelves.

_Nothing here of any further interest except – ah, what’s this? A small pot simply made of part-glazed clay. Looks like a child’s school art, but the clay isn’t local or even English; I can tell by the colour. Asian? Something inside… hmm. Foreign currency – Euros; couple of Phillips screws, generic, could be from anything; small plastic model soldier complete with automatic weapon – out of a Christmas cracker, maybe? Aha, a bullet clearly fired from a rifle – the groove pattern is unmistakeable._

“Lestrade,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, “did Watson take a bullet when he came under fire?”

“Yeah, he did,” Lestrade came over. “What have you got there?” 

Sherlock held the round between thumb and index figure and raised it to the light.

“Must have kept it as a souvenir,” Lestrade said, squinting at it. “Lot of squaddies do. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of how close I got.”

“Puts a value on your life,” Donovan commented, “at least, that’s what I’ve heard, sir.”

“What, like living on borrowed time, you mean?” Lestrade gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. “Not for me.”

“Where was he shot?”

“Beg pardon, Sherlock?”

“The wound, from Afghanistan,” Sherlock barked. “Where was it on his body?” 

Lestrade shrugged. “We don’t know yet,” he replied. “MOD report’ll give us those details.”

Donovan pointed at a framed photograph in pride of place on the bookshelves, showing John Watson in a Hawaiian shirt sporting a lei around his neck, one arm around the shoulders of a pale, blonde girl with a slight gap between her front incisors. They were both smiling.

“That’s his fiancé, sir,” she said. “Mrs Russell – that’s the neighbour – described her; Mary Morstan. She’s a fashion model – done some work for Prada, I believe.”

“Does she live here?” 

Donovan shook her head. “Lives with her parents in one of those big Georgian piles in Holland Park,” she replied. “You know – the ones that are mostly flats now. Well, theirs is still a private house.” 

Lestrade made a grim face. “I hate to think what their heating bills must be like,” he said.

“Any reason to assume that she wasn’t the woman accompanying Watson yesterday evening?” Sherlock asked looking at Donovan. 

She shrugged. “You mean was he a player? Neighbour doesn’t know,” she replied, “but these society types tend to get about, don’t they?” Sherlock fixed her with a glare.

“And you think the late Doctor Watson was a ‘society type’?” he sneered. 

Donovan shook her head. “We haven’t got much to go on yet, have we?” she replied. 

Sherlock smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, I think we’ve got quite a lot to go on, actually,” he replied, replacing the little pot.

Lestrade scooped up the photograph and thrust it at Donovan. “Williams is looking at the CCTV footage now,” he said. “Confirm Morstan’s identity with the neighbour and get this to him pronto. I want it confirmed that she was the woman he was with before we interview her. Oh, and tell Anderson to get to the master bedroom next.”

“Not before I do!” Sherlock threw over his shoulder as his preternaturally long legs propelled him out of the living room.

_Large room with bespoke built-in wardrobes and matching chests; large bay window overlooking front garden; upholstered window seat; dressing table; queen-size iron bedstead with blanket box at the foot; bedside table – strip of condoms on the surface (only five – one missing); someone’s already been through the drawers – tissues, proprietary painkillers, generic bottle of lube half-empty, an assortment of pens and pencils, a small notebook, blank but with several torn out pages, mobile phone; stripped pine flooring with rugs – again Persian, good quality – and currently strewn with white rough silk bedspread and assorted clothing, male._

Sherlock picked up Watson’s mobile and turned it on; it played a cute little jingle and flashed up with a well-known network symbol.

_Top of the range with mobile internet. Interesting – doesn’t use a password, why? Emails, texts, missed calls – all irrelevant. Nothing pertaining to that evening. In fact, no outgoings at all that evening or for the previous day. Interesting._

Sherlock crouched to pick up a discarded teeshirt, inhaling quickly.

_Sweat; smoke from cigarettes – no ashtrays in the apartment; garlic and Italian herbs – there’s a Mediterranean-style bistro in the next street – exhaust fumes – they sat outside so they could smoke; same odour as on the bathrobe, stronger here. Perfume – DKNY, I think; exhaust fumes, something chemical – a firework display? High street brand, flimsy fabric – absorbs everything. Generic jeans, socks and pants from a well-known chain, white button-down shirt, no jacket – hall cupboard? – shoes well-made but worn. Dressed down for the evening? Didn’t want to be spotted by roving photographers with a woman not his fiancé?_

Sherlock reached for a door handle and found himself in an ensuite bathroom.

_Minimalist: obsessively tidy, like the study, but sparse. Unperfumed soap, wet shaving kit, hardly used but not new – did victim have a beard, designer stubble? – shower gel, electric toothbrush, generic paste, quality bathsheets, recently used, still damp. Shower – generic shampoo, same brand of shower gel, squeegee for the glass – Sherlock sneered to himself. Bathroom cabinet next – mouthwash, interdental brushes, hair product (unisex), spare toothpaste… Sherlock frowned. Where is Mary Morstan’s stuff?_

Sherlock went back into the hallway; Anderson was in the process of zipping what remained of the late Captain John Watson MD into a body bag. Without pausing for breath, Sherlock turned into the kitchen and glared silently at the WDC testing for fingerprints until she looked up. 

“Have you dusted the living room?” he demanded. 

She shook her head and looked back at her work. “Next on the list,” she answered composedly, “bathroom and spare bedroom so far.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Yes,” she returned and met his eyes. “He had a guest.” 

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Lestrade!” he yelled striding back out into the hall. 

Michael Stamford had been living in Watson’s flat for a week or so, it seemed. Mrs Russell had not specifically been asked whether anyone else was living there so she did not volunteer the information. Once Donovan brought up the subject however, she was very willing to tell all.

“A very nice young man – Doctor Watson introduced us when he arrived so I wouldn’t worry about a stranger going in and out,” she said. “He said Doctor Stamford’s an army doctor too, only he’s been stationed in Iraq. He was staying with Doctor Watson for the first few days of his leave. Going to have some fun in London, he said, before visiting relatives.”

“She doesn’t know where he is at the moment,” Donovan continued, reading from her notes, “but he was certainly here yesterday morning. Forensics says it’s pretty clear he was using the spare bedroom and the family bathroom.”

“Description?” Sherlock demanded. 

Donovan blinked. “Caucasian, tall, around five-ten/eleven, broad-shouldered, light brown hair a bit sun-beached,” she replied. Sherlock glared at her until she looked down at her notes again. She shrugged and shook her head.

“Mrs Russell liked him,” she continued. “Said he was friendly and polite, had a northern accent – just an everyday bloke. What, you think he suddenly went berserk and took a shotgun to his friend?” 

Sherlock made a noise of extreme frustration and stood in the hall, his frown deepening by the moment.

“I don’t understand,” he said between his teeth; it hurt to say it. “Where did he live? It certainly wasn’t here, anywhere. _Where is John Watson?”_

“Out of your clutches at least,” returned Anderson as he gestured the ambulance men to take the stretcher. “The only place you’ll see him now is in the morgue.”

The stretcher rounded the corner and began its slow descent of the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Against Lestrade’s express instructions, Sherlock sat in on the interview with Mary Morstan later that morning. The young lady received them in the drawing room of her parents’ stunning Holland Park house in the presence of her father and the family solicitor. No one was quite sure who was responsible for Sherlock’s presence - there had been much shuffling of feet among Lestrade’s team after the event but no one stepped forward to shoulder the blame.

Mary Morstan looked pale and waiflike in her Donna Karan cashmere sweater dress and Christian Louboutin shoe-boots. Her hair was swept up in the deceptively simple messy chignon beloved by public schoolgirls all over the country and the dark shadows under her blue eyes gave her face a heart-breaking gravitas. Sherlock thought the all-black combo a bit over the top for a country where deep mourning was not regularly observed, even amongst the upper echelons.

Mary’s father, The Honourable Sebastian Wilkes, Executive Director of Shad Sanderson Investment Bankers Ltd., sat stiffly beside her on the brocade sofa. The family lawyer, one Shinwell Johnson, sat discreetly to one side with a leather-bound notebook perched on his knee. 

Lestrade sat on another brocade sofa at right angles to Mary and tried to look grave and sympathetic; next to him Sherlock slouched, bundled up in his coat with his legs extended, bored. Lestrade prayed they would get away from this without a lawsuit.

Mary’s demeanour was calm although her voice shook occasionally. Despite her pallor, her body language was languid and she responded to questions in a measured tone with long pauses for consideration between answers.

“Of course Mummy and Daddy knew where I was,” she told him. “John and I are engaged; we spend most weekends together, but last night I had a prior engagement. He was rather cross with me, but I told him I’d make it up to him on Saturday.” 

Her smile was demure; the Honourable Sebastian shifted uncomfortably.

“Are you certain you had no contact with John Watson last night, Miss Morstan?”

Mary blinked slowly. Lestrade registered peripherally that Sherlock had drawn his legs up and was sitting upright.

“I may have called him on his phone,” she replied, “I don’t remember.”

“Think, Miss Morstan,” Lestrade urged, “It could be important.” 

Sherlock broke his silence by snorting; the Honourable Sebastian stared, affronted. Sherlock shook his head.

“Leave it, Lestrade,” he said dismissively, rising to his feet, “you’ll get nothing worthwhile out of her while she’s in this state.”

“Sherlock,” hissed Lestrade, stubbornly remaining seated. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock leaned down over Mary Morstan, dwarfing her with his great height. “You’re drugged up to your eyeballs aren’t you, my dear?” he said in a patronising tone. She stared back, uncomprehending; he nodded.

“Downers always have that effect,” Sherlock continued conversationally as he pulled on his gloves. “Talk to the family doctor, Lestrade; he’s probably been handing them out like sweeties for years. Oh, and give the stuff at least 24 hours to work its way out of her system before you talk to her again. I don’t know exactly what she’s on but some benzodiazepines have a half-life of 18 hours or more, 24 to be safe. Her statement won’t be worth the paper it’s written on if you take it now. Afternoon.”

He stalked out of the room with a swirl of coat, slamming the door before anyone could react let alone speak. The Hon Seb drew breath, his face mottled with fury.

Lestrade raised a hand. “Don’t say it,” he said gloomily. “Sherlock is an elemental force of nature. He’s rude, childish and totally lacking in any semblance of social graces, but he’s right; he’s always right. So before you open your mouth to blast me into my component pieces, sir, I think we’d better get your doctor to talk to ours, and then you and I are going to have a chat about why you didn’t tell me your daughter was on medication before we interviewed her.”

 

_Ballistics report only what I expected: 28-gauge shotgun; shells loaded with ¾ oz. of No. 7 ½ shot; two shots point-blank range; no sign of the weapon._

Preliminary medical report: male, white, Caucasian, five-eleven, good muscle tone, dark blond hair cut short, gun calluses etc. etc., distinguishing features: small tattoo of a bird at base of spine, done within the past six months or so. Cause of death – two point-blank blasts took out all cranial tissue and the left part of the pectoral girdle, the left scapula and the left shoulder joint. Death was instantaneous and the body bled out very quickly. 

_Scene of Crime report observes a single footprint not traceable to any of the shoes in the flat, print definitely occurring after the fact due to its situation on the edge of the pool of coagulating blood. Item One – find the shoe…_

“Sherlock!” Lestrade burst into the room. “Sherlock, I can’t believe you’re sitting there at my desk reading my reports as cool as you bloody please after the stunt you pulled this morning – I’ve only just escaped a reprimand by the skin of my teeth!”

“The skin of your teeth and my deductions about the girl,” Sherlock replied without looking up from the report. “What was it – hydrocodone? Oh, alright, don’t tell me, let me guess: the father had no idea she had them or what they were for, the family doctor prescribed a limited supply for back pain sustained during protracted modelling sessions, and little Mary found she worked much better with them than without. I suspect she has quite a collection of the things stashed in her handbag in a cute little itty bitty box masquerading as make up and is professing total ignorance as to their origin, am I correct?”

“Actually…”

“So I think we would be forgiven for drawing certain conclusions with regard to their provenance, seeing as she was engaged to a registered medical practitioner…”

“Sherlock, we have no evidence to support the supposition that Doctor John Watson…”

“No, agreed, but it would be a rather stunning coincidence if he wasn’t involved in some way, wouldn’t it?”

Lestrade perched on the edge of his desk and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not exactly happy with you at the moment,” he said reluctantly, “but I have to admit I think you’re probably right.”

“Now,” said Sherlock briskly rising from Lestrade’s chair and fastening his scarf around his neck, “if you take my advice, you’ll slap a search warrant on the premises in Holland Park and take away her shoes for testing.” 

Lestrade watched Sherlock shrug his way into his coat and frowned. “Shoes?” he asked. “Look, have I missed a step here? You think she was lying about not being at the flat yesterday evening?”

“Of course she was lying,” Sherlock said, his hands stilling for a moment. “Come on, they’ve been engaged for three months and they don’t live together. They’d be spending every moment of privacy they can get engaged in some kind of sexual activity. She was there, Lestrade. I don’t know why she’s lying about it yet, but take it from me: she was there.”

“Is that what you think an engagement’s about, then?” Sally Donovan stood in the doorway, chin thrust out, preventing Sherlock from exiting. “Wall-to-wall shagging? Have personal experience, do you?”

“Donovan,” cautioned Lestrade, his voice gravelly. 

Sherlock smiled without humour. “Having never been engaged, I find myself without sufficient data to comment,” he replied composedly. Donovan snorted inelegantly.

“And why am I not surprised at that?” she said, her smile nasty. She was holding a thin folder in her hand, evidently destined for Lestrade’s desk. Sherlock grabbed it.

“Preliminary report, Sally? Good, thank you,” he said, flipping open the cover and absorbing the salient points while Donovan and Lestrade gaped at him.

“Hey!” Sally grabbed at the folder. Sherlock twitched it out of her grasp.

“Has it not occurred to you that the neighbour might have rather more to tell you about Morstan and Watson other than the fact that they were engaged?” Sherlock demanded, still scanning the text. 

Sally looked mutinous. “Mrs Russell was at her bridge club last night – you know this already,” she replied testily, “What else do you expect her to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock began with wide, sarcastic eyes, “How about the number of times she is certain that Morstan stayed over with Watson since their relationship began; how long Michael Stamford was resident in the flat and his current whereabouts; whether Morstan and Stamford knew each other and how well; Watson’s relationship with Stamford – were they close, did he owe him money, etc. although I confess the last one might be reaching for a mere neighbour.”

“What makes you think Mrs Russell knows any of this?” Lestrade demanded. 

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s worth a try seeing as we’re going to have to find the answers to all of those questions eventually,” he replied. "Anything useful from the sister?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not yet. She's in Australia on an extended trip, according to the neighbours - won't be back till next month. We should probably wait for the formal id before we talk to her." 

"Can't you Skype her? She could have useful information." 

"Yes, Sherlock, we know but there are rules in a situation like this," Lestrade replied, "and besides, they weren't close. Hadn't been in contact for a while until just recently." 

"Family feud?"

"Something like that."

"Interesting..."

"Now, don't start jumping to conclusions," Lestrade replied. "She could scarcely have shot him from Adelaide, now could she?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes then thrust the report back at Donovan with a brief, insincere smile.

“And you’ve mis-spelled ‘commitment’ on page 3,” he said, “A common error. Most people make it once; you seem to make it every time.”

He swept out of the doorway then leaned back in to fix Lestrade with a glare.

“The forensics report you are currently impatiently awaiting will tell you very little that we don’t already know,” he said, “except for one small thing. SOCOs picked up a shoeprint in the blood near the bedroom door; unusually efficient of them. A woman’s print – I recognised it last night at the scene. Forensics will confirm it.” 

Sherlock drew himself upright. “Why waste time?” he said. “Put in for that warrant now and get her shoes to the lab before the drugs wear off and she starts to work it out for herself.”

 

_Everything moves slowly, like treacle. I could watch a dust mote take days to travel its way from the ceiling to the floor. My senses are working at the speed of light but my mind is so calm, so clear and everything is so obvious, so simple._

Like the John Watson case, for example. I can see the solution; it’s elegant, tricky and hinges on one crucial misunderstanding. The whole thing is spread out for me to read, it’s just around the corner, so close to my grasping fingers, I can almost taste it... 

“Sherlock.”

His eyes shot open then slitted closed again.

_“Sherlock!”_

Sherlock sighed and gave up trying to keep in the zone. “What is it, Lestrade?” he said in tones of utter boredom. Footsteps sounded in the room, stopping in front of the sofa where Sherlock Holmes lay, to all intents and purposes dead to the world.

“Look, genius,” Lestrade was not amused. “I call you to a fresh crime scene; you insult everyone, intimidate my staff and push Anderson’s blood pressure even higher than it already is. Then you invite yourself into a very delicate interview situation, against my express instructions I might add, and royally piss off the witness and her family – her father’s demanding to know by what right I allowed some Joe off the street to go prying into his daughter’s private life.”

Lestrade paced the rug. “You break into my office, read confidential police documents,” he continued, “you make baseless demands requiring me to harass innocent people; you humiliate my Sergeant and then simply take off into the sunset. You don’t answer your mobile for the rest of the day, you force me to come in search of you and, to add insult to injury, I find you half way through a pack of twenty despite having taken the pledge in front of witnesses three weeks ago!”

Sherlock smiled as he knocked the long column of ash into a saucer and stubbed out the filter.

“Don’t worry about Sally,” he replied. “We’re old friends and she’s tougher than she looks.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it!”

“And for your information,” Sherlock continued, ignoring the interruption, “this is the only cigarette I have smoked since I arrived home and it is the first since that ridiculous agreement.”

“It wasn’t ridiculous,” Lestrade protested, sitting down, loosening his scarf. “I’ll have you know, I’ve managed to keep my word, even if you haven’t.”

“I have indeed.” Sherlock swung his legs over the end of the sofa until he was upright.

“As it happens, I have never smoked regularly,” he said. “It impairs the sense of smell – so important for a detective. No,” he continued, “I only agreed to your proposal to see how long you would resist temptation. Once I saw that you had succumbed, I realised there was no need for me to pretend any longer. For brainwork, one cigarette is quite adequate, particularly if one hasn’t indulged for several months.”

“What do you mean, succumbed?” Lestrade glared. “Sherlock, just because you reckon you’re…”

“I mean,” Sherlock raised his voice over the other man’s, “that if you can find a packet of cigarettes in this flat, I will be civil to Anderson, even in the face of his most extreme stupidity, for three whole weeks.”

Lestrade paused. “So you pickpocketed that one?” he said at last. Sherlock nodded in satisfaction.

“From you,” he replied. Lestrade reflexively clutched at his pocket, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock’s smirk of satisfaction.

“Yes,” the other man continued, “I had intended to take the whole packet, but when I realised there were already three missing, I decided to let you incriminate yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade stood to remove his coat and walked over to the unlit fire, rubbing his hands against the cold. “It’s a fair cop, as they say. Mind if I put a match to that?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Be my guest,” he murmured.

“Mrs Hudson made it up for you?” Lestrade asked; Sherlock shrugged again, uninterested. The two men observed a companionable silence while Lestrade coaxed the tinder into life with the aid of his cigarette lighter. Once the flame looked healthy enough to survive without constant attention, he sank into the nearest armchair with a bone-weary sigh and glanced at his watch.

“Not much of the evening left now, is there?” he said rhetorically; Sherlock did not deign to reply. Lestrade leaned forward, elbows on knees, and raised his chin.

“Alright then,” he said, “tell me now – what have you got?”

Sherlock took a breath and steepled his fingers.

“The fiancé was definitely present when Watson was killed,” he began. “Forensics have confirmed a woman’s shoe print in the hallway which definitely happened after the event. So, Watson and Morstan were in bed together, probably gearing up for round two when the killer called.” 

Lestrade sat back in his chair. “How can you possibly know that?” he demanded. “Shoeprints are one thing, but knowing when someone’s halfway through a shag? That’s just showing off, Sherlock; you can’t know that.” 

“Ah, but I can!” Sherlock propelled himself off the sofa and began to pace. “Strong odour of semen, stains on the bedding, just one used condom in the waste bin,” Sherlock reeled off facts as though they were in a list. “They weren’t yet asleep because both bedside lamps were still on – one might indicate insomnia from one partner, both indicates wakefulness for another reason.” 

He turned to Lestrade and smirked. “I think it’s fairly clear they’d already had one go and were working on his refractory period, don’t you?”

Lestrade frowned. “For the sake of argument,” he said, “s’posing Watson was playing away from home?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The teeshirt on the bedroom floor,” he began, “Generic white, one size, men’s from a national chain popular at airports. Smelt mainly of sweat and sex but I could detect traces of a very distinctive perfume. I could smell it faintly on the bathrobe he was wearing too and the bedding fairly reeked of it. It’s by DKNY, the newest fragrance for this year. It’s hasn’t officially been released. It was Morstan alright. She was definitely in his bed; this confirms it.”

“So how do you know so much about fashionable perfume, then?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock waved that away as not worth the bother. With an inward sigh, Lestrade tried again.

“So Mary Morstan makes a habit of wearing DKNY perfume?” he said slowly.

“Probably,” Sherlock responded dismissively. He frowned at Lestrade’s uncomprehending expression. “Don’t you get it?” he demanded, and then sighed irritably. “Look, Mary Morstan isn’t just an empty-headed socialite, she’s a famous model. She’s the face of the new DKNY fragrance – haven’t you seen the adverts? If anyone was likely to have an advance supply, she would.” 

Lestrade nodded. “So, what you’re saying is…”

“I’m saying Mary Morstan is lying; she was there.”

“Are you telling me…?”

“No, no; she didn’t kill him,” Sherlock began pacing again. “At least, I don’t think she did, but she was there when it happened.” 

Lestrade took a breath. “So if I’ve got this right,” he began, “the Gospel according to Sherlock says that the two of ‘em went to bed together after an evening out, got disturbed by someone at the door, he recognised the caller, answered it and was blown to kingdom come. Then, instead of calling the police like any normal girl would do who had just seen her fiancé gunned down by a shotgun blast to the face, Mary Morstan got dressed, picked up her belongings and left the apartment cool as you like, returning home to her parents where she currently is now? It doesn’t add up.”

“Of course it does!” returned Sherlock impatiently, “and I don’t imagine for one moment that she saw the perpetrator. If she had, we’d be investigating two corpses rather than just the one. I think she heard the shot and didn’t dare move until the gunman was long gone. I think once she saw what had happened, she panicked and decided to limit her involvement. I must admit, it takes nerve to walk out on your fiancé in that kind of situation. I take my hat off to her composure.” 

“You would,” muttered Lestrade. 

“I think when forensics gives you their findings on the hallway, you’ll see that I’m right,” Sherlock told him simply. 

Lestrade sighed. “I’ve already applied for the Warrant,” he said heavily, “so I hope to God you are.” He straightened his stiffening legs, groaning at the effort.

“Cold’s got into my bones,” he complained, rising slowly from the chair. “Alright, Sherlock, we’ll do all you want, but I don’t want you at the interview – no arguments. You might get to talk to her at a later date, but after last time I’d rather not have a harassment charge flung at me at this early stage.”

Sherlock glowered. “You’d better get a handle on Michael Stamford,” he replied. “If he was in the flat yesterday morning, he might have some idea of Watson’s movements during the day. Do we have a photograph of him?” 

Lestrade shook his head. “Not yet, we’re working on it,” he said. “You’ll have a copy when we get one.”

“And something on his background,” Sherlock continued, “not to mention Mary Morstan’s; there might be something there, you never know. I’d also like to talk to the neighbour, Mrs Russell, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust Donovan…”

“It’s that you don’t trust Donovan, I know,” interrupted Lestrade. “I get it, Sherlock, but I can’t promise anything; she’s an old woman.” 

Sherlock nodded impatiently. “Also, find out when John Watson got that tattoo done,” he said. 

Lestrade frowned. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know – ask his sister, look it up in his medical records, when the MOD sees fit to give them to you, use your imagination. The report says it’s some kind of bird. Make sure they’re more specific when they do the post mortem.”

Sherlock stretched his legs and put his hands behind his head. “Oh, and one more thing,” he gave Lestrade a beatific smile. “Put a few enquiries out on a certain Alexander Murray of studios in Grosvenor Street. I think you’ll find he and Watson knew each other – pretty well, I’d be prepared to bet. I’m guessing they met in Afghanistan – Murray used to be a war photographer. It’s possible he might have some idea where Michael Stamford has got to.”

“Do you seriously think Stamford killed Watson, then?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think anything, Lestrade; I deduce,” he announced with relish, “and so far I don’t have enough data to deduce anything about Major Michael Stamford MD apart from his rank.”

Lestrade stared expectantly. 

Sherlock shrugged. “What?” he replied. “You think Watson would give up a spare room in an apartment this opulent to anyone who didn’t outrank him?”


	4. Chapter 4

After bidding a yawning Lestrade goodnight, Sherlock was left wide awake and motoring. It was far too soon in the scheme of things to sleep – he had at least another two nights without before his brain slowed down – and the lack of distraction always clarified his thought processes. He grabbed his coat and his keys, thrust his phone in a pocket and strode out of 221B with a slam which shook the whole building. 

A brief tussle about the lateness of the hour with the uniformed officer in charge of the crime scene merely served to prod Sherlock’s deductive brain cells into overdrive. As he slowly ascended the stairs and entered John Watson’s flat, he was gratified to note that his eagle eye had missed nothing the previous night, even with the poor light and less than ideal conditions.

Another officer was stationed outside the apartment door, but he had clearly been warned and stood aside obediently in response to Sherlock’s glare.

The hall was a mess of bare floorboards, amputated carpet and half-cleaned walls and skirting. The worst of the gore had been removed but any estate agent worth his salt would take one look and bring in a team of industrial cleaners swiftly followed by a painter and decorator. Sherlock moved slowly around the flat, uncertain as to why he had returned, ending up in the kitchen. He opened the ‘fridge: immaculately clean and tidy with milk, eggs, bread and olive-oil spread, nothing more.

The cupboards told the same story: convenience staples such as breakfast cereals, sunflower oil, salt and assorted cans. Sherlock sighed; John Watson’s death was unlikely to hang on whether he liked to eat shredded wheat or toast for breakfast. The small freezer yielded slightly more information. It was about half-filled with frozen dinners of the meat and two veg kind, supplied by a very up-market gourmet caterer and close to their use-by dates. Sherlock examined one or two of them. They claimed to be high in protein and vitamins, low in fat and calories but still leave you feeling full. He snorted quietly.

“Don’t you approve? Looking at you I’d say you have no need to watch your diet, but looks can be deceptive and without your outer wear you could be much thinner than you appear.”

Sherlock whirled, for once totally wrong-footed. He narrowed his eyes at the intruder and replaced the food in the freezer, closing the door quietly.

The newcomer was an attractive man in his early to mid-fifties, casually dressed in well-cut casual trousers and an expensive-looking leather coat. His hair was abundant and silver-grey, swept back from a wide forehead above rich brown eyes with enviably dark lashes. His designer stubble was darker than his hair and his skin held the even tan of a man who spent much of the year abroad or regularly frequented sunbeds. He smiled politely but warily and Sherlock had a sudden vivid mental image of two powerful animals circling one another, deciding whether to be enemies or allies.

“You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective” the man stated. His understated delivery said public-school and red-brick university. Sherlock gave a slight formal bow of acknowledgement.

“You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid,” he replied quietly. The man paused for a beat then barked out a laugh.

“Not something that happens to you often, I’d say,” he replied, his eyes full of genuine amusement. 

Sherlock fought to keep his annoyance from showing. “No,” he replied simply. 

Still smiling, the man extended a hand. “The name is Percival Phelps,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me…”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock replied, regarding the man’s hand as though it were an offensive weapon, “I know precisely who you are and what you do.”

“Oh?” The tone was unmistakably one of invitation.

“Yes,” Sherlock was feeling more certain of his ground. “Percival Forestier Phelps, known as Percy, son of James Garland Phelps of Phelps Industries, a pharmaceuticals company. Your father was a self-made man who took some very prudent decisions in buying and marketing drugs for weight loss. As the only child and heir, you inherited a pharmaceutical empire but declined to become involved in the business, choosing instead to be a sleeping partner. You used your unearned wealth to set yourself up as a theatrical agent and have shown some considerable acumen so far, signing up a wealth of young talent as well as luring away from other agents, by methods some would describe as questionable, such formidable names as…”

“I see I was wrong; you certainly know your business,” Phelps’ ample smile had tightened. Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

“I do indeed,” he replied, “as do your lawyers. May I congratulate you on last month’s court appearance? I thought the prosecution had a watertight case; a pity for them their star witness suddenly moved out of the jurisdiction.” 

Phelps’ eyes had gone steely.

“Indeed.” He inclined his head briefly, acknowledging a successful salvo.

“I take it you represented the late John Watson,” Sherlock announced, strolling purposefully into the living room. 

Phelps followed him at a slower pace. “I did,” he replied.

“You’ll be sorry to lose a lucrative client.” 

Phelps paused before speaking. “I have to admit that John was – special, but,” he shrugged, “I have bigger earners on my books.”

He sounded nonchalant enough, but beneath the surface self-control there was genuine regret and something perhaps a little deeper. Sherlock was silent.

“He was a complete outsider,” Phelps continued softly. “Almost immediately I met John I knew he would be fabulous on television. I was right, of course; the camera loved him and so did every studio audience he appeared for. I was working on a series for him – nothing huge, but a relevant topic for him to front.”

Phelps shook his head. “Well, that’s all down the drain now,” he said finally.

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock replied briskly, “but it’s my job to find his killer. Now, Mr Phelps, perhaps you can tell me the whereabouts of Michael Stamford?” 

Phelps looked blankly back. “Mike Stamford?” he replied, “John’s army medic colleague? Visiting his family, I understand. I know he’s on leave and he’s been staying with John, but I thought he’d gone to Leeds to see his sister last week.”

“Do you have an address for her?” 

Phelps shook his head. “We’re not close,” he replied. “I only met him last month. Doesn’t the MOD have it?” 

Sherlock gave Phelps an old-fashioned look. “Blood out of a stone,” he said. “It’ll take weeks. What about Mary Morstan?”

“John’s fiancé? What about her?”

“What can you tell me?” 

Phelps’ expression darkened. “Mary is one of my highest earning clients,” he replied, his tone now cautious with a hint of steel, “and I was delighted when she and John decided to get married.”

“Consolidate the assets, eh?” Sherlock sneered.

Phelps shrugged. “There is certainly no harm in it,” he replied mildly, “and a high-profile wedding of this kind is always good business.” His expression hardened.

“Mr Holmes,” Phelps said, “I appreciate that a man has been murdered, a friend and a client, and that his killer is a danger to the public and must be apprehended as soon as possible, but I am certain that Mary had nothing to do with the situation – nothing! And I won’t have her harassed; things are tough enough for her as they stand without your interference. If you try to make her life difficult, I will take action to stop you; legal action if necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Mr Phelps,” Sherlock said, his neutral tone masking the grinding of his teeth. 

The other man gave a brief bow. “Then I will take my leave of you,” he said, “and let you continue your deducing uninterrupted.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the front door. With his hand on the latch, Phelps spoke again.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed when you realise, Mr Holmes,” he said without turning round. Sherlock frowned.

“Realise what?” he demanded. 

Phelps turned slowly. “That your little attempts to decipher the enigma of John Watson from the clues his home has to offer up are doomed to failure,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s tone was genuinely puzzled.

“Yes,” Phelps nodded seriously. “I’m surprised Lestrade didn’t tell you – or perhaps he doesn’t know yet?”

“Know what?” Sherlock was becoming irritated.

“I was John’s landlord, didn’t you realise?” Phelps replied, an edge of amusement leaching into his tone. “This is my place – I designed, decorated and equipped it, so unfortunately whatever you deduce from its contents won’t reflect on John in any way. Such a shame!” 

Sherlock’s face underwent an abrupt transformation. “Of course!” he hissed under his breath. “I assumed he either owned the place or had at least let it unfurnished. Why? Stupid, stupid! That was why I couldn’t find him, not anywhere. And that would be why you could gain entrance, even at this time of night, although it doesn’t explain why you would want to.”

“Excuse me?” Phelps’ expression was puzzled but serious. 

“How did you get past the armed guard, Mr Phelps?” Sherlock demanded, “the constable on the door? He’s supposed to keep the _hoi polloi_ out on the street where they belong.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d accept that description,” Phelps replied mildly enough, “but how I got in is easily explained; I told him I was with you.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head and smiling broadly. “Go, Mr Phelps,” he said, waving the other man away, “Leave me to my deductions. You have no idea how much easier this is going to be now.” 

With his first real grin of the evening, Sherlock turned his back on Percival Phelps and went back into the kitchen. The other man paused for a moment, frowning in indecision, and then he shook his head and turned to go about his business, nodding politely to the constable on the door.

 

Several hours later, Sherlock’s ebullient mood had evaporated together with what little patience he possessed. He had taken the kitchen apart, checked the cutlery drawer, the icebox, the cupboard under the sink. He had climbed on the work surfaces to peer over the tops of the built-in units, he had crawled under the sink and removed the u-bend to examine the trap.

He had lifted the carpet in the living room, taken the cabinet off the bathroom wall, taken every drawer out of Watson’s bedside cabinets, chest and fitted wardrobes and checked underneath. Not even the doormats or the cleaning materials escaped his attention.

“Nothing,” he murmured, “Absolutely nothing at all. Oh, come on, John Watson! There must be some trace of you here – speak to me, damn you!”

The clock struck six times. Sherlock stood in the study clutching the small clay pot containing the bullet that had ended John Watson’s army career. He shook his head in defeat and replaced it gently on the shelf; time to call it a night. He yawned and tightened his scarf, wrapping his coat firmly around his thin body preparatory to leaving. On impulse, he walked back into the living room and picked up the framed photograph of John Watson, giving it a long, appraising look.

“You’re going to have to give me some kind of a clue,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve reached the end of the road here – I’ve got to know which way to turn.”

Sherlock’s eye shifted to the discreet gold writing at the base of the photograph then snapped up to John Watson’s face once again. He breathed out in a gusty sigh and replaced the photograph gently.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “Time to put the photographer in the frame.”

 

Alexander Murray was something of a surprise. It wasn’t that Sherlock was in the habit of pre-judging people by their work, but he had seen and admired his South Bank exhibition for its careful contrasts and sensitive treatment of sometimes controversial subject matter and he discovered that he had, to his horror, formed certain pre-conceived impressions of its creator. Whatever those notions had been, a first meeting quickly deflated them with a vengeance.

Murray could have played rugby for England just by standing still and blocking the opposition. A huge mountain of a man with massive hands and shoulders that barely cleared door frames, Murray made the largest stills cameras look like Dinky toys. 

A shower and a shave had restored Sherlock to his former energy levels despite two nights without sleep and he felt his deductive faculties sharpening as he peered through the front window of Murray’s Grosvenor Street studio.

The big man was carefully cutting a mount for a large head and shoulders print of a young girl; he held the Stanley knife between his thumb and first two fingers like a pencil. He finished the cut and straightened with a business-like smile as Sherlock pushed open the glass door to the tinkle of an old-fashioned bell.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said heartily with a blinding smile, “Mr Murray?”

“In person,” the giant responded, offering a hand. Sherlock clasped it trying hard not to wince as Murray ground his knuckle-bones together.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock grated out. A ripple of something passed over Murray’s face and he released Sherlock’s hand to his immense relief. 

“The private detective,” Murray said nodding. “Inspector Lestrade warned me you might be calling.”

“That’s Consulting Detective,” Sherlock corrected, subtly flexing his hand to check for breakages. He reached into an inside pocket, “My card.”

Murray took the small oblong and read both sides, pursing his lips at the job title.

_Ill at ease, wary of me – understandable, seeing as the police have already questioned him, ham-fisted fools! Undeniable talent. Creases round the eyes – not sleeping then._

“I take it I’m not what you expected, Mr Holmes,” Murray said, his tone diffident. His voice was an unexpectedly light tenor with a very slight Irish lilt. 

“Not exactly, no.” 

Sherlock ignored the implication and instead studied three framed photographs on the wall of the studio, clearly all drawn from a war zone under desert conditions. The first depicted soldiers deployed in a skirmish with unseen assailants, the focus on the young corporal in the foreground, sniper’s rifle to his shoulder, concentration written large upon his clear, unblemished features. The second picture must have put Murray at some considerable risk, as it was of an enemy camp at sunset, clearly taken with a powerful telescopic lens from a vantage point some considerable distance away, but nevertheless, Sherlock judged, within the ambit of the sentries should he have betrayed his presence. The detail of the clothing and the braziers lit against the cold of the desert night was remarkable. Sherlock wondered fleetingly if Murray and his camera had managed somehow to get ahead of the troops. The third shot showed nothing but miles and miles of white, bright desert sand with a burnt out army jeep in the foreground, on its side, its stark outlines a sharp contrast with the otherwise pristine landscape. An overdone, some would say hackneyed image, but in Murray’s hands it somehow managed to transcend the commonplace.

The work was meticulous, of a very high quality and strangely moving.

“These were part of the South Bank Exhibition,” Sherlock gestured with raised eyebrows. 

Murray’s eyes widened and he nodded. “You’re familiar with my work?” he said in surprise. 

Sherlock inclined his head. “Indeed,” he replied, “Your work from Afghanistan alone will ensure you a place in posterity.”

“Thank you,” Murray responded, clearly taken off guard.

“You knew John Watson in Afghanistan?” Sherlock continued quietly. 

The big man nodded. “We met there,” he replied. “I was assigned to his unit to take stills for a documentary about trauma medicine in conflict zones, but as soon as I saw the landscape, I realised the potential. I took every opportunity that presented itself, and a good few that I had to manufacture myself.” 

He flashed a quick grin which faded as he continued. “We became reasonably friendly, John and I – after all, we were expected to work together on the documentary. When he returned to London, we got in touch again. I introduced him to Percival Phelps and the rest is history. We’ve met up occasionally since – drinks, dinners, that kind of thing – but he’s pretty busy nowadays.”

_He’s uncomfortable._

“How did you come to know Phelps?” Sherlock asked. 

Murray turned away to make a careful cut in the cardboard.

_Even more uneasy._

“He came to see the South Bank Exhibition,” Murray said, “He liked what he saw and he suggested that I try some commercial photography for him. He brought Mary Morstan to me. I was absolutely bowled over – a supermodel, posing for me; imagine that!” 

Murray shook his head. “Anyway,” he continued, pausing in his cutting and leaning against the table, “I took some quite interesting pictures – I was proud of them. Mary used two for her portfolio and Percival took the rest away. The next thing I knew, he’d hawked them around Prada, Gucci, Jean Paul Gaultier – you name it.” 

Murray gave a self-deprecatory laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not a fashion photographer, Mr Holmes,” he said, “Percival was pitting me against really talented people who’ve done nothing else their entire working lives. However despite that, Donna Karan was really interested and they adopted Mary as the face of their new perfume. Of course, they used other people for the shooting work, but they hired me as a consultant to duplicate the look I’d achieved in Mary’s photos.”

Murray turned back to his work. “I’m not one of Percival’s clients,” he said, “He doesn’t represent photographers as a rule. However, he has quite a few clients who need my services; we have a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”

“Did you take photographs of John Watson?” Sherlock asked looking directly at Murray.

_Interesting: he visibly flinched._

“Yes,” he said, “Percival sent him to me for portfolio pictures. He’d never done anything of the sort before and it was a steep learning curve for him.” 

Murray’s hands stilled. “He found it difficult; he was very self-conscious, at first,” he said, a faint smile on his craggy features. “It took several weeks and a lot of effort, but we got there in the end.”

“What about Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, “Did you take any of him there?”

 _The pause before answering is too long_.

“No,” Murray answered shortly.

_Why would he need to lie?_

“What about the photograph he has framed in his living room?” Sherlock asked, “The one in uniform with the Captain’s pips?”

Murray laughed self-consciously. “Oh, that!” he replied, “That was just a joke. I happened to be there at the time, that’s all.”

 _Oh, there’s a lot more to it than that_.

“What was your relationship with John Watson?” Sherlock asked bluntly, “Were you ever a patient? Did he ever treat you for illness, wounds, etc. while you were in Afghanistan? Did you socialise, have friends in common, girlfriends in common? How well did you know each other before you came home for good? Did you keep in touch after you left Afghanistan? Did you know in advance that he was being invalided out and did he come to London for your sake?” 

Murray’s eyes widened in horror; Sherlock closed in. “Was he something more than just a friendly acquaintance, Alex?” he said in quieter tones. 

Murray had gone very pale. “John and I were – friends,” he replied; his voice cracked, “good friends. Excuse my surprise, but it’s a slightly strange question.” 

“Why?” demanded Sherlock, immediately jumping on his hesitation. “He was an acquaintance who became a business associate who became a friend. He then hired you to assist with his new career. That’s quite a lot for one relationship. Are you sure there was nothing else?”

“No!” protested Murray, now really frightened. “I – I really don’t know what you mean.” 

Sherlock walked directly into the man’s personal space, grabbed hold of his wrist and swept the loose cuff of his shirt up above his elbow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Murray flung out one meaty hand and pushed Sherlock away from him so hard that he lost his footing and landed on his backside. Murray’s angry expression morphed into almost comical alarm.

“Are you alright?” the big man asked, holding out a hand while hastily smoothing down his sleeve, but not before Sherlock had glimpsed the tell-tale track marks.

“Perfectly, Mr Murray,” Sherlock’s smile was nasty. He took the proffered hand and levered himself to his feet. Once upright, he maintained his grip on the other man’s hand and stood in his personal space, looking him directly in the face, pleased to note that his preternatural tallness brought them eye to eye despite the other man’s bulk.

“As one addict to another,” Sherlock continued in quiet tones, “I think you know exactly what I mean, and I think you regret John Watson’s death for more reasons than you’re currently acknowledging.” 

Murray’s expression hardened into something more resolute. “And I think you’d better leave, Mr Holmes,” he said, refusing to back down, still holding the Stanley knife. Clearly, Murray had found a spine from somewhere; Sherlock wondered where. He shifted his hand so that he could block the other’s wrist if necessary. His cool gaze did not waver.

_He’s not frightened any more. Why?_

“Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, “Very well, when you’re ready to talk to me, Mr Murray, you have my card.” 

He turned on his heel and opened the door, jangling the bell. 

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” he said, looking back.

Sherlock left the studio with at least one more answer and several more questions than he had brought with him.


	5. Chapter 5

“MOD says Michael Stamford is on leave, expected back in two weeks. Address is listed as John Watson’s flat.” Lestrade’s voice was distorted over the phone.

“Does he have a home address?” Sherlock reached for a pencil.

“No,” came the reply, “his brother is his next of kin; lives in Scotland.”

“I presume you’ve already established that he’s not there?”

“Give me a chance, Sherlock; locals haven’t responded yet.” Lestrade was starting to whine. 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Then remind them!” he barked, “Do I have to do everything for you?”

Lestrade seemed to be holding two conversations at the same time.

“Hold on, Sherlock,” he said in between comments. “Donovan’s just brought in the report from forensics on Mary Morstan’s shoes.”

The whisper of pages being turned.

“Well, fuck me!” Lestrade spat, uncharacteristically crude. “Sorry – I’m sorry, Donovan. Sherlock, the little bitch was lying through her teeth!”

“I told you she was,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “Now, set up an interview at the Yard as soon as you can; I’ll be with you in half an hour, I need to phone Leeds. Don’t start without me!”

 

Sherlock was as good as his word. Exactly twenty-nine minutes and forty-three seconds later, he breezed into Scotland Yard only to be shown not into the interview room but to Lestrade’s office.

“Mary Morstan is not to be interviewed until her doctor gives the go-ahead,” he announced heavily as soon as Sherlock entered the room. “She refused to speak to us so we turned up at the house, faced her with the evidence and threatened to have her down at the Yard if she didn’t come clean. She pitched a fit of hysterics, passed out and they had to call the family doctor. His opinion – 24 hours before she’s compos mentis. Her father attempted to punch my lights out, we made our apologies and left.” 

Sherlock smirked. “That was fortunate,” he commented. 

Lestrade frowned. “What, her pitching a fit?” he demanded. 

Sherlock shook his head. “No, the attempted assault on a police officer by her father,” he replied. “I imagine he wouldn’t want you to press charges, particularly with all those witnesses.” 

Lestrade gave a weak smile. “That’s true,” he said ruefully, “and it may give us a bit of elbow room, but at the cost of whatever goodwill there might have been in the first place. We won’t get much out of her now.”

Sherlock lowered himself carefully into the visitor’s chair and laced his fingers, leaning his chin on them thoughtfully. 

Lestrade sighed. “And just to make a bad day even worse,” he continued, “Michael Stamford is not in Leeds with his sister.” 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” he said questioningly. 

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he continued with his tale of woe, “Local coppers say the sister’s expecting him any day now and she’ll let us know when he gets in touch.”

“The sister’s name is Emma Whiteside and she is a systems analyst, married with two small children,” Sherlock added calmly. 

Lestrade stared. “I hacked into the MOD and got her phone number,” Sherlock explained offhandedly, “Oh, don’t worry – they’ll never trace it. I called her – used your name, I hope you don’t mind. She’s a nice woman, good sense of humour and the occasional spark of intelligence. She genuinely has no idea where her brother has got to.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “I thought it a bit odd, actually,” he admitted, “so I pressed her for details. Apparently, she’s been half-expecting Michael to arrive for the past couple of days. She had an email a week ago delaying his visit citing ‘unfinished business’.” 

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “That sounded like subtext to me,” he said, “so I asked her. She was slightly embarrassed but eventually she told me. It dates from when he was first posted abroad, and ’unfinished business’ means precisely what you might think.” 

Sherlock smirked at Lestrade’s raised eyebrows then held up a finger. “But that’s not all,” he continued, “He also signed the email with a kiss which he almost never does.”

“Significant?” Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock nodded, his eyes bright. “She says he sent it occasionally in emails from Afghanistan,” he explained. “It meant that things were getting exciting; very exciting. Emma said she put two and two together and concluded that the woman in the frame was someone he could neither turn down nor actively talk about. She was thrilled about it actually; said it had been a long time since he’d been involved with anyone.”

“Married woman, possibly?” Lestrade ventured. 

Sherlock shrugged. “We won’t know until Stamford surfaces,” he replied, “and that could take a while.”

“Mm,” agreed Lestrade, “especially if it’s love’s young dream like the sister seems to think. He’s not answering his mobile or emails, so I guess that means he’s somewhere too remote for a signal, too busy shagging, or both. He could be anywhere.”

“I wonder,” mused Sherlock under his breath. His eyes sharpened.

“Okay,” he snapped back into focus, “the Mary Morstan situation. Irritating and annoying, but not critical: she’ll only confirm what we already know, at least for the present, so we can afford to wait.” 

Lestrade broke off from re-reading Mrs Russell’s statement. “So why are we bothering with her at all?” he shot back, clearly still angry about the set back, “Tell you what, let’s just let her go, shall we? Forget all about John Watson and go off to the pub – what do you say? We could collect Donovan and Anderson on the way, make a party of it.” 

Sherlock frowned, unamused, and fished the latest forensics report from under Lestrade’s nose. He leafed through it disdainfully shaking his head. 

Lestrade ignored him, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve already told me she didn’t kill him and she wasn’t a witness,” he continued, spreading his hands. “Oh, come on, Sherlock! There must be more to it than that.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t a witness, just that the murderer didn’t know she was there,” Sherlock replied irritably, making a note in the margin, “Honestly, Anderson’s grammar gets worse by the hour!” 

Lestrade paused. “ _Why_ didn’t the murderer know she was there?” he asked in a different tone. He wrinkled his forehead in perplexity.

Sherlock’s head shot up like a dog scenting a rabbit. “At last – some faint intelligence!” he crowed. “Continue.”

“We’ve established that it’s likely the killer was known to John Watson,” Lestrade went on. “Watson must have confirmed that he knew the caller before he let them in – no one in their right mind would open the door blind at that time in the morning – but if the killer knew him that well, why did he assume that Watson was alone? It was Saturday night. According to Morstan, she and Watson were always together Friday and Saturday nights. Anyone who was in any way close to them would know this.” 

Lestrade rose from his chair and walked over to the window, turning his back on Sherlock. “Mrs Russell didn’t see Watson or Morstan that evening because she was out at the theatre,” he continued. “She says she never saw very much of Morstan when she was with Watson, partly because Russell’s flat doesn’t have a vantage on Watson’s. It doesn’t have a direct view of the entranceway either, but that’s conversions for you.”

“No other neighbours?” 

Lestrade shook his head. “Two other flats, both empty,” he replied. “Times is hard – people don’t have the money to live like this.”

Lestrade paused, raked his hands through his hair and jammed them onto his hips. “So,” he said, “if the killer was well-known to Watson – so well known that he’d open the door to him in the small hours of Sunday morning – how come he was so sure that Watson would be alone? And if he wasn’t, why did he risk leaving a material witness behind?”

Sherlock smirked. “ _Now_ you’re asking the right questions,” he said with satisfaction.

 

Twenty-four hours before Mary Morstan could confirm or deny Sherlock’s deductions. Until then, Lestrade seemed to have dried up on leads. He wasted some more time on the phone trying to get information out of the MOD, he ran background checks on Phelps, Murray and Stamford, finding nothing they had not already covered and nothing useful. 

Sherlock disappeared around lunchtime, presumably to Barts or back to Baker Street – he did have other cases to conduct alongside this one, he explained impatiently to Lestrade. By six o’clock, Lestrade was more than ready to call it a day but not ready to go home and sleep yet. He knew his mind would revolve endlessly around the case, refusing to rest, battering against the brick wall which was not enough evidence.

His feet found their own way to 221B Baker Street and he caught himself wondering if he could actually stand living there with Sherlock – he knew the man was considering taking a flatmate. As he stepped over the threshold, he was reminded in spades of why the fleeting thought remained fleeting.

The walls of Sherlock’s living room were covered with tacked up aerial photographs. Most of them appeared to be desert landscape viewed from a goodly height, some included distinguishing features such as vehicles or people; others were simply blank, featureless sand. On the coffee table rested a selection of crumpled maps annotated with bold lines and red scribble with comments such as “Nomadic trade route during October” and “Ashkunu?” Sherlock himself was curled up on the sofa gazing intently into his laptop screen, occasionally reaching to tap one-handed at a small calculator.

Lestrade occupied himself by studying the photographs while he waited for Sherlock to give him a fraction of his attention.

“Alexander Murray is a very brave man,” Sherlock said finally without looking up.

“Eh?” Lestrade grunted and turned his head. Sherlock nodded towards the photographs.

“I’ve been looking into his work in Afghanistan,” he replied. “He was supposed to be taking stills of field surgery on wounded servicemen, but he achieved rather more than that. Look.” 

Sherlock turned his laptop for Lestrade to squint at. The photograph was of a young Afghan girl on her knees in the dust, turning over the body of a young man. He was clearly dead or gravely injured and the girl raised her haggard face to the camera, her hands red with the young man’s blood, and allowed Murray and his lens to rip into her soul. It was startlingly affecting and very powerful.

“God!” muttered Lestrade.

“I doubt He had anything to do with it,” responded Sherlock acidly, “Murray also managed to steal a march on the Taliban. He got closer than anyone thought possible to take photographs of their camps, their defences and their ordnance. More than once, he eluded capture by sheer dumb luck and most of the time he was alone. He did something very similar in Iraq but he wasn’t as lucky there.”

“His CO must have been off his rocker to allow it,” Lestrade growled. 

Sherlock smiled. “My guess is that he knew nothing until Murray presented him with the evidence,” he said wryly. “Who’d turn down intel that good? Anyway, I was just putting what he achieved in some logistical perspective; it’s impressive.”

Lestrade nodded at the laptop. “Distance calculations?” he asked. Sherlock stared at the computer as though he had never seen it before, and then gave a huff of laughter.

“Lord, no,” he replied. “Mycroft’s making me do my own tax return this year. Says his staff have got better things to do than chase up my old receipts.”

Lestrade grinned broadly. “Welcome to the real world, Sherlock,” he said warmly, “See how the other half lives and take comfort in the fact that when you’ve done this one, you’ve got a whole year until the next!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m sure that’s what Mycroft hopes,” he drawled, “but I promise you, he’s going to be sadly disappointed. This is quid pro quo for a favour; I’ve got him to run some background checks on a couple of people. Technically an abuse of his power but we all know how Mycroft judges such things.”

Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock,” he said heavily, “I need something – a lead, an anomaly – anything.”

He sat down opposite Sherlock. “We’ve been on the John Watson case three days,” he explained. “We’ve released the usual preliminary statement to the press and they’ve gone berserk. This is the biggest story out by a mile; nothing can touch it, it’s even got into the American press. John Watson was a rising TV personality engaged to a top model. The brass are on my back for a quick result and I’ve got nothing. So give me something.”

Sherlock carefully placed his computer on the coffee table and leaned his elbows on his knees.

“You’ve got a man who was well-known, well-liked, contented in his work, happily engaged, had no enemies, with no money problems and seemingly at the top of his game,” Sherlock began in a measured tone, “He ends up with his brains splattered over his own hallway by an unknown assailant with no apparent motive. We have nothing to go on as regards the perpetrator so we must concentrate on the victim.” 

Sherlock paused. “His only near neighbour found him polite and friendly,” he continued, “and everything you’ve got from the studios, his agent, Mary Morstan’s parents, etc. substantiates the view that he was a thoroughly nice man; kind, patient, cheerful and thoughtful. But all those people are acquaintances or business associates; we haven’t found one genuine friend yet. His fiancé is beautiful, successful and an entirely appropriate match, yet far from assisting us to bring his murderer to justice, she tries to conceal her involvement – very ineptly, I might add – and refuses to cooperate. Captain Watson MD served in many of the world’s most dangerous trouble spots until he was seriously injured trying to save a colleague’s life on the battlefield, almost died and had to retire from his career, a huge blow I understand. Yet he went on to present a shallow, insipid daytime television slot which depended much more on his outward genial personality and good looks than his knowledge as a doctor or his skills as a soldier. Why? The man was clearly an adrenaline junkie, so why descend to this level? It’s all so – so _vanilla!_ ” 

Lestrade stared. “Sherlock, how do you know all this?” he asked. Sherlock made a dismissive gesture.

“The tours of duty or the television?” he demanded then shook his head. “Mike Stamford’s file wasn’t the only one I hacked at the MOD. It seems that Watson completed exactly five tours of duty in different warzones. As a result, he hadn’t lived in this country on a permanent basis for at least a decade. As for the television programme, I watched it on iPlayer, of course. He’s quite good at what he does, but he’s clearly bored out of his not-so-tiny mind.”

Sherlock started to pace. “Watson wasn’t conspicuously wealthy but his salary from the network together with his pension and some dividends from inherited stocks and shares made him very comfortably off. His wardrobe contained several bespoke suits and jackets, some very good quality shirts and ties, Gucci shoes, cashmere, etc., yet if the clothes on the bedroom floor are a representative sample, when he wasn’t working he dressed in generic chain store stuff and borrowed his friend’s bathrobe. Why? And where is John Watson’s own bathrobe? Was it disposed of because it was involved in some way?”

 _“Bathrobe?_ Sherlock, what are you…”

“Of course it wasn’t his bathrobe,” Sherlock spat, “it was far too short in the sleeves. And that’s not all!”

Sherlock stamped over to the window and perched on the sill. “The photographer, Alex Murray,” he continued, “The man’s cagey and unhappy talking about Watson, but he knows him much better than he’s letting on. He’s also a recovering junkie. Now, did he pick up that habit in Afghanistan, I wonder? Did John Watson supply him with the drugs? Preliminary reports didn’t find any evidence of drug use, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. That framed photo in Watson’s flat – that wasn’t a one-off, you know. Murray did some portfolio work for Watson, but we haven’t found anything in the apartment. Was Watson was looking elsewhere for work without the permission of his agents or the network? If so, he might have left the pictures with a third party. If so, who? And where are the others…” Sherlock trailed off deep in thought.

“What others?” Lestrade demanded, mystified. 

Sherlock shook that off like a dog out of the rain. “And his agent – Phelps,” Sherlock shook his head. “There’s something odd there. He’s controlled, professional; very tamped down. He’s accustomed to playing his cards close to his chest; I doubt we’ll get him to tell us anything beyond what he thinks we should know. His grief over Watson was genuine enough though, and he’s been helpful to the man well beyond what is expected in a professional relationship. You knew he was Watson’s landlord?”

Lestrade nodded.

“What you may not know,” continued Sherlock “is that Phelps also decorated and furnished the place. There’s nothing of Watson there, Inspector; it wasn’t his home.”

“Are you telling me he’s got another address?” Lestrade was starting to get impatient. “You’re making no sense.”

“Alright then, tell me this;” Sherlock advanced on the policeman. “Have your techies finished with his desktop?”

Lestrade nodded. “They found nothing,” he replied heavily, “A few photos, nothing interesting or recent. Business letters, accounts on a specialist program all present and correct, iTunes, couple of games. He orders a few things online from Amazon, browsing history unremarkable; Youtube, current affairs, online shopping, electronics – no porn, by the way – doesn’t even seem to pick up much email. Utterly unremarkable.”

“Except for the lack of porn.”

“Not everyone needs that sort of thing, Sherlock.”

“True, but most men his age look at _something._ ”

“That’s as may be, but my people can’t find it.”

“Exactly. So where is his laptop?”


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock glanced at his phone and made a face. Three-thirty am was too late even for Angelo to rustle him up a plate of spaghetti. He was accustomed to burning the candle at both ends and running on empty most of the time, but every few days even Sherlock Holmes needed to refuel.

Scowling, he lit another cigarette and breathed a plume of smoke out of the window into the frigid, pre-dawn air. Soon he was going to stop – again. It was foolhardy to dull his sense of smell, he knew that; full recovery would probably take months. 

He stared and breathed, and breathed and stared. London was still awake and alive with lights, traffic and people going about their business regardless of the hour, the weather or the seasons. This was what Sherlock liked about this city that never slept; not that it was nocturnal, or that it held its sleeplessness as some kind of badge of honour like New York, but that it had always through the centuries had a blatant disregard for the strictures of the clock or the sun and refused to let either of them rule. It was this quality that kept him living here despite the noise and the disturbance, the dirt and the pollution. Battlefields keep their own time.

Abruptly coming to a decision, Sherlock threw his cigarette out into the street and slammed down the sash. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he clattered headlong down the stairs and out into Baker Street, setting off at a fast walk in the direction of Hampstead until he could flag a taxi.

The police cordon and crime scene tape had been taken away earlier in the day and the front door of the apartment was closed and locked. Sherlock reached into his breast pocket and removed a set of slim tools. Two minutes later, he stepped silently into the entrance hall closing the door behind him with a faint click. Feather-footed, he took the stairs at a brisk run, pausing outside the apartment to exercise his lock-picking skills once again.

Sherlock paced into the living room and paused, getting his bearings. He reached carefully to his right, switched on a standard lamp and crossed over to the window to draw the curtains. He then stood back and surveyed the room, eyes glancing over sofas, bookshelves and carpeting.

Presently, Sherlock approached the beautiful Italian gouache he had admired earlier and touched gloved hands to the frame. He smiled as he noted the shadow of a wall safe behind the painting and removed it from the picture hook, leaning it carefully against the wall. He flexed his fingers in preparation.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had cracked the combination and was delving inside the small cavity. The spoils were disappointingly meagre.

_Some legal documents – Will and Power of Attorney for one Emilia Watson (must be his mother). Medical records on Harriet Watson (I’ll be she doesn’t know he’s got these, no wonder they’re in the safe). A box containing some old-fashioned and rather valuable jewellery – his mother’s property, perhaps._

Sherlock closed the safe door and spun the dial, frustrated. He stood for a moment thinking furiously, and then his jaw dropped. He snapped his fingers, gritting his teeth in a grim smile, and made for the study at speed.

Once there, he made a grab for the tiny handmade clay pot containing the spent round and tipped the contents out over the desk. He sorted through it furiously, ignoring the bullet, the currency and everything else until he found the plastic toy soldier.

“Yes!” he hissed, holding it up as though it was the Holy Grail. “I _knew_ we’d missed something!”

Sherlock pulled out his tablet from an inside pocket and laid it on the desk. Then he took the little toy soldier and frowned, holding it up to the light, running the pads of his fingers over the surface. He gripped the torso between thumb and forefinger and pulled, smiling in satisfaction as the figure split into two revealing a USB connector.

“A flash drive,” he murmured, plugging the device into the tablet and waiting impatiently for it to load up. “Now, what do we have on here?”

Sherlock did not deceive himself that he had happened upon anything earth-shattering with this find – although he had to admit that if Watson had any deadly secrets, this hiding in plain sight was an ingenious way of keeping them – but any further light he could shed on the elusive doctor was very welcome.

The little drive revealed several folders of photographs. Sherlock double-clicked on the first one and brought up Windows Picture Viewer. He set the folder to Slideshow and sat back in his chair to view the contents.

They were, at best, pretty mundane: a studio fashion shoot with Watson modelling smart-casual clothing, the poses natural and artless-seeming; a more casual setting, this time outside in a garden, autumn weather with clear skies and golden brown leaves; two close-up facial shots, examining an acorn, looking up at the sky. There were two sharp winter scenes with snow and clear, bright sunlight. Watson seemed to be enjoying himself here, swinging on a tree branch; closing his eyes in an outraged grimace as snow cascaded on his head from a branch above. Sherlock scrolled through quickly, his face impassive.

There were scans of tear-off sheets from a couple of the classier glossies, one concentrating on evening wear. The clothes were impeccable, Sherlock had to admit, but Watson himself seemed ill at ease for all his genial smiles and relaxed posture.

Bored, Sherlock went back to the index and clicked on the second folder. As it opened, his eyes flickered wider and he sat up, attention piqued. This was something different; a varied collection of photographs covering many different venues and evidently having taken place over some considerable time. There were outdoor scenes, country and town; shots on the bus, on the Underground; interiors, exteriors, rain, snow, sun. There were a number of shots, beautifully caught, clearly from Afghanistan, so Murray was evidently being economical with the truth there, and some in a different location which looked Mediterranean if Sherlock was any judge. From detailed monochrome close-ups to soft-focus profiles, pensive stills to madcap action shots, John Watson had been photographed in every conceivable setting, mood and light, on numerous different occasions over a period of several years. This was the result; this eclectic mix, chosen with meticulous care and kept together, the pick of the bunch, in one folder.

_The first one is Watson’s portfolio, but this – this is something else. This is a labour of love, a collection drawn from a close association lasting several years. But what for? Too soon for a memorial – the timing’s wrong. A tribute to the living, then; a gift, something to celebrate – what? Afghanistan? No, not specific enough. Was it made as a gift? For his sister perhaps? Or his mother? Were these photos ever printed in an album?_

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaled forcefully and turned his attention back to the photographs. He clicked on the next folder: Murray really knew his stuff, he had to grudgingly admit. He sat up in his chair as Mary Morstan was suddenly revealed in all her glory.

Well, _all_ her glory would be overstating it a bit. She wasn’t nude, but she might just as well have been. Sherlock recognised the style and the pose from the recent perfume ad, confirming Murray’s claim to have contributed materially to that publicity campaign. Mary’s face and body were perfect, flawless, smooth and beautiful, and totally without character, as was expected of a top model. She was a blank sheet of paper, ready to be written on, drawn on, scribbled on and made into something else, something other. Bored, Sherlock clicked for the next picture. He paused; this one featured her with John Watson.

They certainly looked well together, he thought. His earthiness brought a sense of realism to her ethereal beauty; totally calculated of course, but effective. These were clearly promotional shots designed to be used by the press on the announcement of their engagement. As he scrolled through, Sherlock raised a speculative eyebrow – if Watson had been looking for an introduction to films, he could not have done better than to flaunt these pictures. The soft-focus, white-on-white quality; the seeming yards of skin the couple were displaying despite the decorous nature of their poses; the sexual undercurrents smouldering in Watson’s eyes and in the grip of his hands around her upper arms – all of this added up to something very powerful and compelling.

_Hats off to Alex Murray._

Sherlock let the tablet fall into his lap with a sigh and massaged his temples against an approaching headache. He rose from the chair to stretch stiffened muscles, noting with mild shock that the clock above the mantle read 6.15am. He rolled his shoulders carefully and returned to the chair; three nights without sleep was not unusual for Sherlock, but he would have to give in soon or the effects would begin to impair his efficiency.

On a whim, he picked up the framed photograph he had noticed that first morning, the laughing John Watson of Afghanistan, obviously celebrating his recent promotion, unaffected and natural, his eyes brimming over with happiness.

“Murray was in love with John when he took that one.”

Sherlock was too weary and his reactions too slow to give a proper start. Instead he turned his head slowly and glanced towards the living room door.

“Come in, Mr Phelps,” he said simply, “What brings you to this neck of the woods at such an hour, may I ask?”

Percival Phelps stepped over the threshold and into the dim light. He was immaculate as before in a Cashmere overcoat this time over a tailored suit and expensive black Oxfords. He carried a briefcase.

“I could just as soon ask you the same question,” he returned, “and probably with more reason, but I can easily see why you are here. How you gained entry, however, is another question.”

“Keys,” lied Sherlock easily, “from Inspector Lestrade.” 

Phelps chuckled. “Oh, I find that most unlikely, don’t you?” he replied. “The police only solicit aid from professionals, Mr Holmes; they don’t allow the _hoi polloi_ into crime scenes unescorted.”

“Nevertheless, that is my answer,” Sherlock replied gravely, “but as for your own presence, that remains unaccounted for.”

“On the contrary,” was the mild reply, “I have nothing to hide. My office is in Highgate. It’s a little too far to walk from my house – which is a couple of streets away – so I go for a short distance on foot by the Heath and when I get tired I hail a cab for the rest of the way. This morning, I was rather surprised to notice a light in the window of the living room when this flat was supposed to be empty so I used my spare key to let myself in. And who did I find rifling through his belongings but the eminent Sherlock Holmes – and at the crack of dawn, no less.” 

Phelps smiled, shaking his head. “You really must be royally stumped, Mr Holmes, to still be puzzling after your third sleepless night.” 

Sherlock made no response but merely lowered his eyes back to the photograph. Phelps drew nearer and smoothed a finger over the glass surface.

“A stunning piece of work,” he declared, “and with such personal involvement! Frankly, if I hadn’t already known how he felt about John, it would have been obvious just from that one picture.”

“You said they were in love?” Sherlock prompted. 

Phelps pursed his lips. “I said Murray was in love with John, not that it was reciprocated,” he replied. “For all intents and purposes, John loved Mary – as much as he loved anybody.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s brain had suddenly woken up.

“Yes,” Phelps confirmed. “John had never been married or even in a long-term relationship until Mary came along. Oh, he’d had affairs on three continents – a long string of them, I understand, although he kept the details very private.” Phelps allowed himself an indulgent smile. “The armed forces do rather frown on that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” demanded Sherlock. “Womanising? I very much doubt that seeing as the military prides itself on its testosterone. The only relationships the armed forces have any reservations about are homosexual ones. Are you telling me John Watson was gay, Mr Phelps?” 

A ripple of something not at all pleasant wiped the smirk from Phelps’ face, gone in an instant to be replaced by his customary blandness.

“John was not homosexual or even bisexual; he was straight,” Phelps corrected. “He was also a gentleman and resisted the urge to kiss and tell. He developed a habit of intense privacy early on in life; a result of having a closet lesbian for a sister and all that entailed for family peace and harmony. Even I know very little about his past social life, so if you’re looking for copy I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“You sound as though you knew him for a long time,” Sherlock prompted. 

Phelps shrugged. “Long enough,” he replied.

“And you met exactly how?”

Phelps gave Sherlock a bland look. “One or two of my colleagues started to recommend Alex Murray for portfolio shots,” he explained. “I didn’t know him but I knew about his pictures from the front, of course – an absolute artist – so I called on him. I wanted to see some of his current work, ascertain for myself whether the quality was in any way comparable to his war work. At first, I was not convinced but when I saw the very photograph of John which seems to be obsessing you at present, Mr Holmes, I began to realise that not only was Murray still on top form, his subject was a potential small-screen star. I asked to see more of Alex’s work with John Watson which only confirmed my first impressions. I made a few return visits to Alex’s studio and eventually my persistence was rewarded. I met Doctor John Watson and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Except that you still haven’t explained about Watson and Murray.”

“Oh, do you want the prurient details?” Phelps made a disgusted face. “Yes, of course you do. How could I have imagined otherwise? Well, I have no intention of giving them to you. I suggest you speak to Murray – if you dare.”

Phelps gave a nod in farewell and started for the door, but before crossing into the hall, he turned back with a soft laugh.

“I do believe, Mr Holmes, that you are letting your emotions get the better of you,” he said quietly. 

Sherlock lifted his chin. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t possess any,” he replied stonily. 

Phelps shook his head slowly, still chuckling. “Still,” he admonished, “sitting in a darkened room for hours at a time mooning over photographs of a dead man, a man who if he were alive wouldn’t give you the time of day.” 

Phelps broke off, tut-tutting gravely. “If one didn’t know better,” he said lightly, “one might think that you were developing an unhealthy attachment. Perhaps you need to avail yourself of what the medical profession laughingly calls psychiatry, Mr Holmes. You could make the medical journals, you know; I don’t suppose they’ve ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse before.” 

Sherlock lowered his eyes but said nothing.

Phelps laughed; an unpleasant sound. “Good morning, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Please remember to lock up when you leave; I should hate for the neighbourhood ungodly to ransack the place, particularly after I spent so much time and trouble decorating.”

Phelps left the living room then, his shoes making no sound on the bare hall floor. Shortly after, Sherlock heard the click of the latch and then silence.

Sherlock tried to motivate himself to move but a lethargy owing more to lack of food than sleep sank down around him like thick fog.

_Five minutes, then I will get up and leave this place. Five more minutes and I will go back to Baker Street, lie down and recharge. Sleep is a waste of time, but I can’t put it off any more. Just five minutes in this chair…_

A sound like an explosion propelled Sherlock into an upright position. He was breathing hard and the room was filled with bright daylight. _The slam of the front door; Phelps must have returned for some reason_. He wiped a hand over his mouth as swift, no-nonsense footsteps approached from the hallway. Disorientated, Sherlock rose from his chair to be confronted by a complete stranger.

The man was short with broad shoulders and dusty blond hair with a sprinkling of grey. His tanned face and upright bearing screamed military and the cool manner his blue eyes swept over the room said marksman. He fixed that disconcertingly direct stare on Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.

“Who are you,” demanded the newcomer, “and what the bloody hell have you done to my flat?”

Sherlock stared blankly, and then to the other man’s complete perplexity he began to laugh.


	7. Chapter 7

John Watson had been away from home for five days finding himself, so he said. 

This was what he told Lestrade in an interview room at The Yard exactly thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds after Sherlock had placed the call. 

For once, Sherlock elected to play things by the book. Sherlock’s motives for this uncharacteristically co-operative behaviour were unclear at the time and made little sense to him on further reflection, so he took the line of least resistance and ignored them. He accompanied a furiously protesting John Watson in the back of Lestrade’s unmarked police car in total silence for the entire journey in case someone decided he had no business being there.

It turned out that Watson had not been visiting his sister or his mother, or indeed any other relative or friend, he said. No, he had been down to the Sussex coast to Chichester where he stayed at a small guesthouse and walked the beach. Sherlock took out his mobile and sent a few texts for confirmation of these facts, appearing to take no further notice of the proceedings.

“I needed some space,” Watson explained. “There’s a lot going on in my life at the moment. I really had to get away to think it through and try to work out my priorities.” 

On learning of Watson’s snap decision, he said, Mike Stamford had then owned up to his own change of plans and asked if Watson minded him staying for a few extra days.

“Did he say why he wanted to stay for longer?” Lestrade asked. 

Watson’s eyes shifted, he looked down at the table and shook his head. “Just that he had some unfinished business,” he replied. “We hadn’t seen each other for a while – years, actually – and we hadn’t completely caught up. Hadn’t had the time, really. You’d be better off asking him yourself. Why don’t you?”

“And yet you chose to leave him days after his arrival on a whim to visit a coastal town in the off-season?” Lestrade persisted.

“It wasn’t a whim,” Watson protested, shaking his head. “I had a break after New Year – the studios wanted me to present a five-part series on emergency first aid instead of my usual medical slot. Because it was all filmed in advance and I had much less to do than usual, I ended up with three days’ leave following a weekend. I came back this morning because I’ve got a meeting at three this afternoon with my producer about next week’s programmes.”

“Do you have any idea what, or who, the ‘unfinished business’ might have been?” Lestrade asked. 

Watson blinked then shrugged, shaking his head. 

_He really is a terrible liar._

“Knowing Mike, it probably had something to do with a woman,” he replied, “but I couldn’t swear to it – we weren’t close like that.”

“You didn’t object?” asked Lestrade. 

Watson shook his head. “It suited me,” he replied. “Good for security to have someone around while you’re away and if he wanted to bring someone back here, I was hardly going to complain. Look, do you mind telling me what this is all about? Where is Mike, and why are you asking me all these questions about him?”  
Lestrade ignored that and frowned at Watson.

“Didn’t you think to let anyone else know where you were while you were having your existential crisis?” Lestrade bit out. “You know – your neighbour, Mrs Russell? Mr Phelps?” It was far too early in the day to be dealing with resurrected celebrity doctors on an empty stomach. 

Watson shook his head. “Well, no,” he replied rather diffidently. “Mary knew, of course, and so did Mike but I didn’t see any reason to tell anyone else. I wasn’t on call; I was free to come and go as I wanted. Mary knew how to get in touch with me in an emergency. I just needed time to think. I didn’t take my phone – I didn’t want anyone contacting me.” 

Watson’s expression hardened and he leaned his elbows on the table, fists clenched.

“Now,” he said in a firmer tone, “Will somebody please just tell me just what the fuck is going on here?”

So Lestrade told him. Sherlock watched the colour drain out of Watson’s face leaving it grey and suddenly middle-aged.

“Oh god,” he said quietly then lapsed into silence. After a minute or two, he raised his head.

“Mike is dead?” he asked.

Lestrade nodded sympathetically. “At least, that is what we surmise,” he replied. “Once the MOD comes through with DNA samples, we can confirm his identity, but there’s precious little doubt about it really.”

Watson scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands for a moment then looked up. “But why?” he asked shaking his head. “Mike didn’t have any enemies; he was an army medic like me, a Major and a really skilled surgeon. He saved people, Inspector; there’s any number of young soldiers who owe their lives, not to mention their continued mobility, to Mike’s amazing expertise.” 

Lestrade cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. Watson gave him a puzzled look.

“Er, we don’t think the blast was meant for Major Stamford, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade said gently.

“You mean…”Watson swallowed uncomfortably. “Oh, come on! No one would want to kill me either.”

“Except that they clearly did, Doctor,” Sherlock broke his unaccustomed silence, looking up from his phone. He straightened from his habitual sprawl and drew his legs under his chair. Watson narrowed his eyes.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “You’re not police, but they let you sit in anyway. Now the Inspector’s letting you join in the party. You were in my flat earlier when I arrived back from Chichester,” Lestrade’s glare promised some comeback from that at a later date, “and beyond your name, which sounds as improbable as your presence here, I know nothing about you.”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “Who I am is unimportant at this juncture,” he replied. 

“Can I have that in writing?” muttered Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored him. He leaned forward over the table, almost into Watson’s space. 

“We need to solve this quickly,” he said urgently. “You had an extremely lucky escape for which the unfortunate Major Stamford paid the price.” 

Watson lowered his eyes in grief; Lestrade frowned.

“Doctor Watson, we must find whoever is responsible for Major Stamford’s death,” Sherlock continued more gently, “and we must find them now, before they can regroup to try again.” 

Watson stared. “Try again?” he said faintly, “but – but _why?”_

Sherlock shook his head. “We can discuss motives till the cows come home,” he replied, “but we haven’t got enough data yet to come to any firm conclusion. What we _do_ know is that the murderer got the wrong man and whatever his reasons for attempting to kill you, those reasons haven’t gone away just because another man is dead.”

A silence greeted Sherlock’s chilly little speech and, satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head and thrusting his long legs out in front.

“Now that we’ve established the urgency of this matter,” he said in a lower tone, “please do me the courtesy of telling me about your relationship with Mary Morstan, in particular her propensity for dating and having sex with other men while maintaining the fiction of an engagement with you. I also need to know as much as you do about her relationship with Mike Stamford, although I suspect that there isn’t really very much to tell – I think that one probably fell into the category of one- or two-night stands, am I right?”

“Jesus, Sherlock! Don’t you have an edit function?” Lestrade groaned.

_Clenches jaw, eyes narrowing slightly – he’s angry but he’s used to impulse control. I admire his sang-froid but I don’t think it’ll last the course._

“I could be wrong here,” Watson said in a deceptively mild voice, “but I think that’s none of your business.”

_Touché._

“You are wrong,” Sherlock returned. “Everything about this case is my business.” 

Watson’s eyes snapped up. “ _Your_ business?” he replied with an edge to his voice. “As I recall, no one has yet explained to me who you are, let alone why you’re here.”

“I vouch for him, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade admitted heavily, “even though he missed his calling to the diplomatic service.”

“Oh, very good, Inspector,” Sherlock mocked sourly. He folded his arms but remained silent.

“And I’m sorry, but he’s right,” Lestrade continued, ignoring Sherlock. “Your private life is only private where it doesn’t impact on a murder case.”

“Will you take my word for it that it doesn’t?” Watson asked. 

Lestrade shook his head. “No, Captain, I’m very sorry but I can’t,” he replied gravely. 

Watson shook his head irritably. “It’s ‘Doctor’, Inspector Lestrade,” he explained. “I’m no longer in active service.” 

Lestrade bowed his head in apology; Sherlock’s left eyebrow twitched.

_Sensitive about his military career. A touch of PTSD, perhaps? Flashbacks, panic attacks? Is this what caused him to run? It would certainly affect his ability to function in his current capacity, but that doesn’t appear to have been an issue. His work ethic is good, according to the network records, and he seems happy enough with the job._

“Mary and I have – an understanding,” Watson began carefully. 

Sherlock snorted derisively.

_Which involves her shagging another man under your roof, in your bed while you are off communing with your inner self._

“There are other, less charitable descriptions,” he said drily. A vein pulsed in Watson’s temple.

“Sherlock, I won’t warn you again!” Lestrade’s icy tone cut the tension. 

Watson nodded and let his breath out in a gusty sigh. “I haven’t been in contact with Mary since– since I left for Chichester,” he said quietly, “but I can’t imagine it’s been any picnic for her either. She met Mike for the first time about ten days ago, so she didn’t know him very well…”

“I don’t imagine that’s a claim she can continue to make now,” Sherlock put in, ignoring Lestrade’s furious frown.

“Anyway,” continued Watson with an extra-deep breath, “she’s a gently brought up girl and…” 

“Oh for goodness sake!” Sherlock passed a hand over his eyes. 

“...and I completely understand her distress and panic on being faced with such a horrible situation.” Watson leaned forward and locked eyes with Sherlock. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that she cut and run,” he continued deliberately. “I think most people would have done the same thing faced with such a ghastly event. She was also afraid for her life, Mr Holmes; there was a murderer out there with a shotgun.”

“Who could have waited for her in the street and picked her off as she left the building!” Sherlock shot back.

“In the street? Directly in the public eye?” Watson demanded. “What self-respecting assassin would lay himself so open to discovery?”

“A desperate one,” Sherlock replied coldly. “Miss Morstan would have been far better to have sat tight and phoned the police, despite their frankly appalling call out time.”

“Hey!” protested Lestrade weakly. 

Watson brushed him irritably aside without breaking eye-contact with Sherlock. “I don’t imagine that sequence of events would be the first thing to occur to a panicking twenty-something girl who had just seen someone’s head explode in front of them,” he countered in a deceptively mild tone.

Sherlock gaped at the man in outraged disbelief; Watson stared back impassively. Sherlock opened his mouth to flay Watson raw with invective but was forestalled by a sharp rap of knuckles on the interview room door. To Lestrade’s puzzlement, Sherlock propelled himself precipitately out of his chair with a swift ‘don’t worry, I’ll get it!’ The PC who was halfway into the room found himself pushed back into the corridor before he could give his message.

“Mr Holmes, your visitor…”

“Yes, yes, thank you so much.” Sherlock’s voice trailed away down the corridor.

“You’re absolutely certain Mike Stamford had no enemies?” Lestrade continued after flashing a confused look at Sherlock’s departing back.

Watson nodded sadly. “Mike was well-liked, very popular, especially with women,” he said. “He was an all-round good bloke, would help you with anything. He had been one of my closest friends at university, and then later at Barts. I was looking forward to getting to know him again.”

“Yet he was sleeping with your fiancé, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade responded acidly. “Perhaps Stamford really was the victim – perhaps it was you who took a shotgun to him. After all, one thing you know plenty about in your business is how to use a weapon. Do you have witnesses that you were where you say you were for the past five days?” 

Watson sighed. “Of course I do – I was staying at a guesthouse,” he replied, “And I’ve told you already; Mary and me – it’s not like that.”

“Oh? So what exactly _is_ it like then, Doctor Watson?”

Voices floated in from the hall.

“So you see, in reality things may not be quite as they seem…”

Sherlock was talking non-stop as he guided the caller through into the interview room, propelling him the final few feet with a hand to the lower back. The man stopped, looked at John Watson with a totally blank face, then blinked and brought a hand to his head.

“John,” said Percival Phelps faintly. That was all he managed to get out before he pitched forward in a most alarming collapse, going down like a tree on the interview room floor.

“Well,” said Sherlock to Lestrade with satisfaction, “I think that answers at least a couple of questions, don’t you?”

He was less pleased with the look of dislike John Watson shot his way as he dropped to his knees and scrambled to administer first aid to his friend and mentor.

 

Percival Phelps, it transpired, had a low blood-pressure condition. Most of the Yard was privy to the subsequent conversation between Lestrade and Sherlock after Phelps’ collapse as it was conducted at a volume which likely contravened European legislation on noise pollution.

“You had no business – _no business at all_ – playing tricks on a man of that age!” Lestrade shouted, veins in his forehead throbbing, “If his heart had given out, the brass would have had my arse! And make no mistake, Sherlock, I’d have taken you down with me.”

“Oh, don’t be such a maiden aunt, Lestrade!” Sherlock’s tone dripped with contempt. “He’s only in his fifties; that’s scarcely old enough to count!”

“People in their fifties die all the time, Sherlock; they don’t need any help from you. And neither will I if you continue to flout my authority!” Lestrade raised a hand to his forehead wincing at the onset of a headache.

“I got a result, didn’t I?” Sherlock whirled around Lestrade’s office gesturing dramatically. “I established that Phelps knew nothing about the mistaken identity. No one could have faked that.”

“I had been intending to discover that one by means that didn’t involve an ambulance, two paramedics and a doctor who is also a suspect in a murder case!”

“I got there quicker. And he’s not a suspect.”

“Both those are still up for debate!”

Lestrade glared then let out a gusty sigh and tugged at his hair. “Just – go away, Sherlock,” he said tiredly. “Go away, find me a murderer and for god’s sake try not to frighten anyone to death in the process.”

Sherlock flashed him a quick grin. “Good day, Lestrade,” he said cheerfully. “You must excuse me – I have to see a lady about a lover.” 

Lestrade raised his head sharply. “Sherlock!” he yelled at the man’s departing back.”

 

Mrs Russell was in her eighties but hale and hearty and with an insatiable curiosity. Sherlock loved that type of nosy neighbour; they were always a fount of knowledge and so ready to share it. Sadly, the interpretation of information was generally lacking, but in this case he felt more than equal to the task of unravelling it.

“Major Stamford stayed for two weeks before it all happened,” Mrs Russell told him over a steaming cup of tea. “He told me he was going to visit his sister in Leeds on the following Monday, but I ran into him later that week and he said his plans had been delayed. He looked quite happy about it though.”

_Of course he would – it’s not often a top model throws herself at you._

Sherlock drank his tea and made gentle conversation. Contrary to Lestrade’s professed opinion, Sherlock knew how to underplay a situation if he felt the necessity and besides, he actually _liked_ Mrs Russell; she reminded him of his own Mrs Hudson.

No, she had never seen Miss Morstan on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Mrs Russell shook her head emphatically at Sherlock’s question; she had always assumed that the couple conducted their courtship at Mary’s establishment.

“So you never saw Doctor Watson at home at the weekend?” Sherlock asked. 

Mrs Russell considered. “Well, that would have been the case six months ago,” she replied, “but recently he’s been at home much more often on a weekend. I was rather surprised, to tell the truth.”

This was new.

“Why was that, Mrs Russell?” Sherlock asked. 

She giggled girlishly. “I thought all engaged couples lived together openly these days,” she said coyly, “or, at least, did so but didn’t tell anyone. Oh, that poor girl!”

Her smile wobbled slightly as she replaced her cup on its saucer.

“He was a nice man,” she said softly, shaking her head. “It’s a terrible thing to happen.” She blinked away a tear before refreshing Sherlock’s tea from the pot with a steady hand.

For a split second, Sherlock wondered if he should enlighten Mrs Russell about the victim’s true identity but his logic centres negated the impulse before it had a chance to fully flower. Lestrade would have Sherlock’s balls if he leaked the news, of course, but the real reason had more to do with the sheer amount of tedious explanation it would involve. 

_Leave it to the police – they have to be good at something._

 

“They didn’t sleep together.” 

Lestrade looked up from his paperwork and blinked.

“Beg pardon?” he said. 

Sherlock entered his office like a whirlwind. “Watson and Morstan – I knew it!” he crowed. “If those two are genuinely attached, I’ll eat your scarf and your gloves too, Lestrade!” 

Lestrade laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” he demanded. Sherlock sighed dramatically and sat down with a flourish.

“For the benefit of those several miles behind me, which is everyone of course,” he began, “the engagement between Watson and Morstan is total fiction.”

“So what’s the story then?” Lestrade looked less than convinced.

“The story is that Morstan likes to play the field,” Sherlock said with a nasty smile, “and whilst she’s been pretty discreet so far, a public engagement makes things very much more respectable for her parents. That would explain the Hon Seb’s defensive attitude towards his darling daughter. Have you checked his alibi, by the way?”

Lestrade nodded. “It’s iffy – attending a function in town; lots of gaps in the timeline.”

“Hmm,” murmured Sherlock thoughtfully, “I wonder if anyone spotted him leaving?”

“Why would he want to kill Watson?” argued Lestrade. “To all intents and purposes, Watson was keeping his daughter’s reputation intact, publicly at least.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s very true, Lestrade,” he replied. “The engagement to Watson would have kept the Hon Seb quiet and put Mary in a safer position. I wonder if Morstan engineered it herself?” Sherlock shook his head. “No. She’s suitably manipulative but she doesn’t have the brainpower for that.”

“Someone must have done some serious legwork to persuade a society family to accept a match between their heiress daughter and a retired army doctor who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together,” Lestrade rumbled. 

Sherlock frowned and ignored that. “Lestrade, you’re missing the point,” he complained. “Morstan’s personal life is not important – she could sleep with the entirety of the England cricket team and I would be neither surprised nor interested.”

Sherlock sat down and leaned his elbows on Lestrade’s desk. “You forget,” he said silkily, “if Morstan was playing away from home, what and/or who was Watson doing?” 

Lestrade put down his pen.

“Now that _is_ interesting,” he murmured.


	8. Chapter 8

At her interview the following morning, Mary Morstan’s face was white and strained with tear tracks on her cheeks, but her spine was stiff and she stared Lestrade directly in the eyes with a steady gaze. 

“The last time we met, you lied to me,” Lestrade accused bluntly.

“Yes,” Mary said in a small voice. Beneath the desk, she clutched at a handkerchief with her right hand; her left was held firmly by a grim-faced and silent John Watson.

“We could charge you with any number of things, including wasting police time and possibly even conspiracy to pervert the course of justice!” 

Mary swallowed. “Yes, I know you could, but you won’t,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Why won’t I?”

“Because you need me to co-operate, Inspector,” she replied. She took a shaky breath and looked Lestrade directly in the eyes. 

“Your bosses won’t wait forever,” she told him, fidgeting against the hard chair, “They’re already being destroyed by the media – I’ve read the papers this morning and so far you’ve got nothing. Go on this way for the next 24 hours and you’ll be taken off the case, Inspector. The fact that you’ve got me to talk might keep the hounds at bay for the present, but I won’t even give you that much if you’re going to put me in a cell.” 

She pouted prettily but her hands were still shaking. From behind the one-way glass, still seething over his banishment from the interview room, Sherlock was reluctantly impressed with her composure.

“I could add a charge of withholding evidence now you’ve said that,” Lestrade hissed.

Mary nodded. “But you won’t,” she replied. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead.

“You won’t,” she repeated, “Because your bosses don’t want me, they want the murderer. And they’ll sacrifice you if they have to.” 

Mary exchanged a glance with Watson and he stroked her white-knuckled hand lightly. Behind the mirror Sherlock made a disgusted noise. He shook his head and then sniggered at Donovan who frowned back but without any real animosity.

“She’s quite right you know,” Sherlock told the Sergeant, ignoring her scowl. “It just goes to show the truth of the old saying about judging a book by its cover; her brand of blond is clearly not all dumb. Watson must have coached her.”

“She’s still in trouble,” Donovan snapped.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Sherlock replied, “Still, I think she’ll ride this one out. She’s not the murderer of course, but she knows the victim and she’ll tell us the truth now about what happened that night.”

Mary’s knowledge turned out to be depressingly unhelpful. She had been in John’s bed with Mike Stamford when the killer rang the doorbell.

“Mike double-locked the door earlier, just in case John turned up unexp..." Mary swallowed and regained her composure. "He said that he didn't recognise the caller, but whoever it was sounded pretty desperate,” she told them carefully. “He put on John’s bathrobe – I’d laughed at him earlier because it was so short in the sleeve he looked ridiculous.” She bit her lip hard; Watson stoked her hand until she continued.

“Mike asked who it was, but I didn’t hear the reply,” she said. “He came back into the bedroom and told me to stay put with the lights off. He said it was someone with an urgent message for John – something about his sister. Mike said he thought he ought to let them in even though he hadn’t yet explained that John wasn’t at home. I knew I couldn’t let anyone know I was there – the scandal – I couldn’t afford something like that to threaten my career at this stage. Mike told me to keep quiet and he’d deal with the man. He said he thought he might be able to help...”

Mary broke off and brought her handkerchief to her mouth.

“The caller was male?” Lestrade asked. 

Mary nodded. “The next thing I knew was this tremendous bang, two of them,” she continued unsteadily, “then an awful bloody silence.”

Mary looked down at the table and bit her lip. Watson stoked her hand but said nothing.

“Why did you run?” asked Lestrade gently. 

Tears welled up in Mary’s beautiful eyes. “I panicked,” she said in a high, tense voice. “I saw there was nothing anyone could do – so much blood! – so I got dressed and got out of the apartment as quickly as I could. I must have managed to find a taxi – I don’t remember very much in between the shots and getting home.” 

She swallowed and bit down on the knuckle of her index finger.

“So you really saw nothing?” Lestrade persisted.

Mary Morstan shook her head. Reflexively, she wiped her free hand against the skirt of her dress. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Nothing at all, Inspector,” she told Lestrade holding his gaze steadily with pleading eyes.

 

“She’s still lying!” growled Sherlock, pacing around Lestrade’s office. He was still furious at having been excluded from the interview.

“Now, come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade spread his hands. “What’s she got to lie about?”

“How long have you got?” Sherlock rumbled, “Look, Lestrade, no woman in the grip of total panic thinks to put on her stockings. Knickers, yes; other underwear, maybe; phone, handbag, keys – all of this is automatic, second-nature, but hosiery? And they weren’t even tights, for god’s sake!” he shook his head. “She didn’t panic; she knew what she was doing.”

“It was very cold,” Lestrade ventured.

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that she was trying, in her own muddled and stupid manner, to eradicate any evidence that she had been there,” Sherlock replied, “Think, Lestrade! If you were about to be caught out shagging someone else in your fiancé’s bed, who would you be most concerned to keep in ignorance?”

Lestrade shrugged. “My fiancé, of course,” he replied. 

Sherlock snapped his fingers.“Exactly!” he replied, starting to pace again, “But John Watson turned out to be unnaturally accommodating…"

“Yeah,” Lestrade growled, “and what’s that all about, then?”

“…and from all indications, she knew that he would be. She didn’t care about John Watson finding out she was with Mike Stamford because he already knew.”

“What?” protested Lestrade. 

Sherlock waved him away. “He already knew,” he repeated. He jammed his fingers into his hair hissing in frustration, “So who else would Mary Morstan fear finding out about her appetites? Her parents? Her agent, Phelps? I’d be willing to bet she’s a trust fund baby, but the potential social disgrace might have given her considerable pause, her parents too. Daddy took a swing at you when you got too close to the truth, didn’t he? Maybe he blamed Watson for his daughter’s addiction problems? Hmm, it might be worth putting the Hon Seb through the wringer once or twice and see what shakes loose. I don’t suppose Mama is involved, but I’d guess that Phelps would be less than impressed although if it got out, at least it wouldn’t do the DKNY job any harm – she’s scarcely sweet and innocent there, after all.”

Lestrade stirred impatiently.

“Sherlock, does this have any relevance to the case?” he demanded grumpily, “or are you just dissecting Morstan’s private life for your own amusement?” Sherlock smirked.

“I assure you, inspector, I have no interest in Mary Morstan beyond her involvement in this murder,” he said. “I am however, extremely interested in John Watson.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied heavily, “and that’s the next question, isn’t it? What’s in it for Watson? He should be jumping up and down protesting his outraged honour not sitting holding her hand and making soothing noises.”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. “Would that help?” he asked. 

“Well, no,” Lestrade replied diffidently, “it’s just probably what I would do in his shoes.”

“Even if you were shagging someone else too?” Sherlock replied, “A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Lestrade nodded. “You said something along those lines earlier,” he said. “How did you work that one out?” 

Sherlock bared all his teeth in a rictus grin. “Mrs Russell is extremely informative,” he said briefly, “Watson slept every weekend away from his flat until recent months. Unfortunately, she has no idea as to where. Seeing as Mary Morstan lives at Holland Park and we have her parents’ testimony that Watson never stayed over, it rather begs the question, don’t you think?”

“Any clue as to the identity of the girl he was with?” 

Sherlock gave Lestrade a long look, then he shrugged.

“Not as yet,” he replied, “but I have a couple of ideas I’ll be following up.” 

Lestrade gave him a look. “No scare tactics, Sherlock, okay?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Watson’s also insisting on keeping on with the engagement, despite the scandal,” Lestrade remarked then sighed heavily.

We’re no further on,” he said, “even though we’ve identified the victim. And the press are baying for blood; my boss is really not happy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say we’re no further on,” Sherlock replied. He fastened his coat.

“Right,” he said making for the door and flinging it wide. “See you later, Lestrade. I think it’s time to throw a scare into Alex Murray.”

Lestrade gave a sigh. “Just – keep it down, Sherlock,” he growled, “The man’s an artist and a hero. Harass him and you’ll have the press down on you like a ton of bricks.”

Sherlock’s ironic laughter floated back from the corridor.

 

Alex Murray was a man of secrets, Sherlock mused as he walked briskly down Grosvenor Street. The short biography he had been able to garner from an internet search revealed very little in the way of facts and much more in what it failed to cover. He’s had to go to other sources for the rest.

Sherlock set his jaw: he had a little more information and a lot more deduction this time. Murray would break eventually, that was a given, but what would result was not certain.

As he rounded the corner and walked past the huge old-fashioned window of Alex Murray’s studio, Sherlock happened upon the first piece of genuine luck this case had dealt him. 

_About time too._

Through the glass, he sighted Murray standing by his desk, framing materials spread over the surface, deep in conversation with none other than John Watson. The intensity of their exchange was such that they completely failed to see Sherlock press his nose against the glass, unable to suppress a grin of triumph.

_Bingo!_

Sherlock was itching to know the substance of their conversation – it would save him so much time and trouble if he could hear them talking unreservedly. He moved as near to the outer door as he could without disturbing it; he was uncertain as to how much pressure would move it or how sensitive the bell suspended over the top could be. He leaned against the jamb and pushed the door gently, opening it a fraction and bringing his ear as close to the gap as he could manage. He considered rooting out his stethoscope, but he could hear their conversation tolerably well as it stood and he was reluctant to miss anything; it was all he could do not to rub his hands with glee.

“I had to bring it back,” John Watson was saying urgently. “I told you to keep the stuff here. Sending it to me like that was the worst thing you could have done. Anyone could have found it – Mary, Mike – even Percy. You know he has a key – it’s his own place.” 

_So Phelps actually used to live in the Hampstead flat? Why did he give it up to Watson, then?_

Murray had his back to Sherlock, his head was lowered and his speech was rushed and murmured; Sherlock strained but he could not hear more than the occasional word. Fortunately, Watson’s delivery was clear enough to compensate.

“Yes, I know what I said, but it’s really not the right time, not with all that’s been happening,” Watson said urgently, “Come on, Alex! We’ve been through this already. Things have changed.” 

Watson ran an exasperated hand through his hair while the tone of Murray’s murmuring became more agitated.

“Yes, I know exactly what you think about what I do!” Watson replied angrily, “Let me just remind you that _what I do_ saved your miserable skin, no question of that. Look, Alex, I’m sorry but this is England, not Afghanistan and I’m no longer fit for active service any more than you are. I have to make a living somehow and there are limits to what…”

Murray had raised his head and was already moving towards Watson, a peculiar expression on his face. He grabbed two fistfuls of the smaller man’s thick Arran jersey and slammed him up against the wall, getting right into his face. Sherlock tensed for intervention, but something made him pause.

“You’ve changed, Watson,” Murray growled. “I thought you were man enough to cope with life as a civilian without losing all your principles, but it seems I was wrong. This so-called career of yours has destroyed…”

“That’s enough!” Watson’s protest cut through Murray’s invective like the crack of a whip. After a beat or two, Murray released Watson’s jersey but grabbed his wrists instead, pinning them above his head. Watson did not resist but his expression was stony.

“Last name terms again, then Alex?” Watson said. 

Sherlock tensed to intervene but Watson did not seem to be afraid. Murray towered over him, but Sherlock was suddenly certain that Watson was allowing this; that he could break the hold as and when he wanted to.

“Alex, think,” Watson insisted, “use your brain. Someone tried to kill me with a shotgun to the face. That’s really nasty – it’s also personal.” Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

“The last thing I need at the moment is any kind of complication,” Watson continued. “I can’t afford to muddy the waters. I need to keep my head down and hope the police come up with the right answer. Right now, I tell you I’m not comfortable with anyone. Not even you.”

Murray snarled into Watson’s face but let him go slowly and reluctantly. Watson lowered his arms pulling down his jersey reflexively. He gave a half-hearted chuckle as he massaged his wrists.

“Strong hands, Alex,” he remarked with a small smile. 

“So have you.” Murray turned back to his work without looking at Watson.

Sherlock chose that moment to push on the door. As the bell above announced his presence the two men spun to face him, fight or flight reactions clearly in good order. Sherlock planted his feet firmly on the tiled floor.

“My apologies for the intrusion, gentlemen,” Sherlock announced in a level tone, “but in view of your extremely interesting conversation just now, I rather think some explanation might be in order.” 

Murray’s face was grey; he stared at the floor. Watson turned away from him and advanced on Sherlock, his chin raised mutinously.

“You again!” he spat, “Who are you and where the hell do you get off stalking me like this?” Sherlock stared back impassively.

_Does he really not know how much his body language is letting slip?_

“You give yourself entirely too much credit,” Sherlock responded calmly, “I came here to see Mr Murray, this being his studio. I don’t think you are on my list until later in the afternoon but I’m a flexible man; if you are free I would be happy to speak to you now. Otherwise I will probably ‘stalk’ you again at a later date.”

_I was looking for something on the drugs, but this is much more interesting._

Watson seemed to hesitate but to Sherlock’s satisfaction he nodded briefly, squaring his shoulders. He placed a hand lightly on Sherlock’s upper arm, guiding him, turning him towards the door. Sherlock glanced down at the hand.

_He doesn’t want Murray involved._

“Catch you later, Alex,” Watson said over his shoulder to no reply. Still with the restraining hand on Sherlock, he opened the door and ushered them both out into the street.

 

Once out of Murray’s studio Watson released Sherlock and paused for a moment in apparent indecision before setting off down Grosvenor Street at a fast pace, clearly not bothered whether his companion could keep up or not. Sherlock followed obediently, lengthening his stride to compensate, and drew abreast of the other man. Watson threw the occasional sidelong glance at his companion as they walked but said nothing; Sherlock merely drew his coat around himself against the cold and hunched down behind his collar.

Several hundred yards further on, Watson turned abruptly into a coffee shop and strode over to a vacant corner table in the bay window which afforded a modicum of privacy. He sat with his back to the wall and signalled to the waiter while Sherlock was still shrugging out of his outerwear.

“Coffee please,” Sherlock ordered in response to Watson’s raised eyebrows, “Two sugars, no milk.”

“Tea with milk,” Watson added, “Assam please, and some biscuits – shortbread if you’ve got it.”

The waiter departed with their order and Watson unbent sufficiently to loosen the zip fastening of his jacket. The two men sized each other up in silence until Watson gave a sigh and clasped his hands together on the table top.

“Well?” he said interrogatively. Sherlock shrugged.

“You tell me,” he replied. Watson narrowed his eyes.

“You were the one who issued the invitation,” he pointed out. 

Sherlock inclined his head in assent. “Indeed,” he replied, “but you accepted it merely to prevent me from talking to the excitable Mr Murray rather than any great desire to speak to me yourself which, in view of the extremely interesting conversation the two of you were exchanging before I entered the studio, was probably something of an exercise in damage limitation. Now that you are here, you are wondering whether it would have been better to leave me with Murray.”

Watson had the grace to look slightly embarrassed but his expression soon hardened again.

“Alright,” Watson began quietly but was interrupted by the arrival of their drinks. He sat in barely concealed impatience while the waiter served them then withdrew. Watson ignored his tea, leaning forward into Sherlock’s space.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a fierce whisper, “Since I got back from Chichester, I don’t seem to be able to move without tripping over you. You’re obviously not police and you’re not a private detective either. You claim you’re some kind of consultant, but the police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock’s eyelids flickered but he said nothing.

“I’m trying to help the police in the best way I know how,” Watson continued, “I’ve lost a close friend in an absolutely horrible way; I am being led to believe that he was gunned down in error and that his killer was actually aiming for me; my fiancé is terrified to set foot outside her own front door; and my flat looks like a minor war has been fought in the hallway. I think that’s enough to be going on with without a maverick investigator hounding my movements, don’t you?”

“Who says I’m a maverick?” Sherlock shot back.

“Well, you’re scarcely official, are you?” Watson replied.

“I have Lestrade’s backing,” Sherlock protested.

“Yes, but does he know you’re stalking me?” Watson argued. 

Sherlock lowered his eyes and Watson smiled faintly.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said quietly, “and I am a consulting detective. You’re right – the police don’t consult amateurs but they consult me when they are out of their depth, which is all the time. They‘re out of their depth with you, Doctor Watson, and that’s exactly why I am pursuing you. And I will continue to pursue you until one of two things happens: either you will tell me the truth or the murderer will try again. Can you honestly take the risk that he may be successful this time?”

The smile dribbled away from Watson’s face leaving his expression bleak. He stirred his tea pensively. “Alright,” he said in a low voice, “Let’s see how this works out, shall we? What exactly do you want me to tell you?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his coffee forgotten. “Murray,” he began, “I take it that, as a doctor, you are aware he is a junkie?” 

Watson flinched and tightened his grip on his cup. “Don’t call him that,” he replied, “Alex is in recovery; it’s just – difficult for him sometimes.”

Sherlock nodded. “And this is one of the difficult times, I take it?” Without waiting for a response, he barrelled on. “Are you supplying him with drugs?” 

Watson’s head jerked upright and he glared at Sherlock in anger. He swallowed several time then took a sip of tea. Sherlock was interested to note that Watson’s hand was as steady as a rock despite his fury.

“A word to the wise, Mr Consulting Detective;” Watson said in low, angry tones, “never, ever accuse a practising medical doctor of drug pushing. It’s one of the worst insults you can dish out and it’s unlikely to afford you any cooperation. In fact, it’s more likely to get you a broken nose.”

Watson shoved his chair back, scraping over the tiled floor with unnecessary noise.

“Do all of us a favour,” he said, reaching into his inside pocket for his wallet, “Stay away from me. And stay away from Alex and Mary too. You’re just making things worse.”

He threw some money on the table and strode out of the coffee shop without looking back. Sherlock swallowed down his cooling coffee and signalled to the waiter.

_That went well._


	9. Chapter 9

“It just doesn’t hold up; there have to be some missing pieces!”

Sherlock stamped around his living room pausing by the mantelpiece to jam his hands on his narrow hips in frustration. The firelight flickered and cast dancing shadows around the walls.

“Well, I’m not getting anything out of any one of our witnesses,” Lestrade complained from the armchair. “They might as well be Trappist monks for all the leads they’ve given me.” 

Lestrade took a sip from the tumbler in his right hand and held it up to the light, examining it critically. 

“This is good Scotch, Sherlock,” he said, raising the glass to his colleague in a salute. 

Sherlock frowned at it and narrowed his eyes. “Where did you find that?” he demanded accusingly. 

Lestrade shrugged, faux-innocent. “In the kitchen cupboard where you keep the tea things,” he replied easily. “I thought it might aid the thinking process.” 

Lestrade held out the bottle. Sherlock picked it up, studied the label and sneered in disgust. “Laphroaig,” he muttered, “1995, sixteen years old, cask strength. _Mycroft!”_

“Your brother put whisky in your kitchen?” Lestrade said in disbelief. 

Sherlock grunted. “He’s always poking his nose where it isn’t wanted,” he muttered. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “I wish _my_ brother would poke his nose around my flat with whisky of this quality,” he replied wryly. Sherlock ignored him.

“Alright,” Lestrade said leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “What have we got? A dead army doctor, an unknown assailant, a suspected case of mistaken identity, a second army doctor stroke TV personality, a top model, an over-protective banker father, a very wealthy entrepreneur and, you tell me, a war photographer with PTSD and a drug habit. There’s also no proof that any of them is involved in this affair at all, except of course for Watson, and we can only conjecture that he was the intended victim.”

“Of course he was!” scoffed Sherlock. “Look, we’ve been through all this at least twice; someone wanted Watson dead. Their first attempt to kill him failed. We have to find out why and, more importantly, who before they take it into their head to try again.”

“And Stamford just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, poor sod,” Lestrade replied, waving a hand airily.

“Exactly!”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. He took another fragrant sip and closed his eyes.

“Got the full post-mortem results on Stamford today,” he said, leaning his head back against the sofa to ease sore neck muscles.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked without much hope. 

Lestrade shrugged. “Only confirmation of everything we’ve conjectured so far,” he replied, “nothing new.”

“Alibi for the Hon Seb?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Debatable,” he said. “He _could_ have done it – he’s got opportunity and he’s a member of his local shooting club. He’s got no form, although he’s not the most even-tempered bloke, but where’s the motive?”

Sherlock shook his head. “What about the background check on Murray?” he demanded. “Anything unexpected?”

Lestrade gave a negative. “Nothing we didn’t already know,” he replied, “and nothing that you haven’t already turned up on your own, I’m sure.” Sherlock smirked and looked away. 

Lestrade frowned. “What makes you so sure Murray is involved in this sordid little case anyway?” he said.

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “He _is_ involved, it’s as clear as day!” he protested. He paced the room a little more.

“Look,” he began again, “his connection with Watson and Morstan changes hourly – firstly he’s a war colleague of Watson’s, then he’s a friend, then he’s a professional employee of Morstan’s, then he works for Watson too. He’s been bloody helpful to Watson ever since they met, well over and above the call of duty as it were. Phelps says he’s carrying a torch for the man but I can’t believe it’s that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Unrequited love - it just doesn’t ring true,” Sherlock protested. “It would be far more believable if Murray was shagging Morstan.” 

Sherlock sighed. He rose abruptly from his seat, snatched up his scarf from the back of the chair and threw on his coat.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade looked up questioningly.

“Time for a different approach,” Sherlock said, a determined light in his eye.

“Sherlock, you’re not trying to tell me that Morstan _wasn’t_ shagging Stamford after all, are you?” Lestrade protested in confusion.

“No, Inspector, I’m not – the forensic evidence is too strong,” Sherlock replied, grabbing at his laptop. “Now, I need to know where John Watson is likely to be tomorrow. I can find out myself if I want to, but I’d rather not have the bother if you are able to help me out.” 

Sherlock looked up over his computer screen and smiled expectantly. 

Lestrade sighed. “As it happens, I do know,” he said, looking up, “unofficially, mind.”

 

Strictly speaking, Sherlock did not need to follow John Watson to Bisley. He could have waited until the man returned to London in the evening, staked out his flat until he returned, visited the studios where he worked. However, it was a Saturday and he had precious little else to go on so he took a train out from Waterloo to Brookwood and a taxi to the National Shooting Centre and he didn’t particularly care if it was a waste of time. 

Men who had witnessed the kind of action Watson had to have seen didn’t come out of it unscathed, Sherlock mused. Watson’s easy manner belied a casual deadliness, a lethal self-control Sherlock found interesting and strangely unnerving. The fact that the man could expound a totally unconvincing tissue of lies and then stick to it unflinchingly was baffling and intriguing.

The range was indoor and around 25 metres long with the usual targets. Watson had so far emptied a Browning hand pistol and a Heckler & Koch rifle into the targets and was now busy with a sniper rifle. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the efficiency of the man; he was a crack shot no matter what he used.

As he watched, Watson lowered the gun from his shoulder. The automatic system delivered his target and he examined it critically. Sherlock opened the outer door and entered the room, noting that Watson still wore his ear defenders.

Sherlock could see immediately the point at which Watson became aware of his presence. Perhaps it was the change in air pressure or maybe he was sensitive to the vibration of Sherlock’s footfalls; whatever it was, his head tilted upwards a fraction and his fingers closed carefully on the weapon in his hands. Sherlock’s brow creased in interested puzzlement; Watson must have seen some serious trouble to be quite so preternaturally vigilant.

As Sherlock stood, hands at his sides, still and unmoving, Watson spun slowly on one heel and brought the weapon to bear loosely held in his hands.

“Mr Holmes,” he said with a tight smile of recognition, reaching for the ear defenders. “I’m sorry not to notice you until now. I can’t hear a blessed thing with these on.”

_Like hell you can’t._

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said in formal greeting, “I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered, if you are not busy, whether you would care to join me for lunch?” 

Watson’s expression was almost comical in its bafflement. Sherlock allowed himself a private smile at having wrong-footed the man. However, Watson rallied pretty quickly.

“Why?” he asked directly.

Sherlock smiled and spread his hands. “Because I still want to talk to you,” he replied, “and yesterday was, ah, unfortunate. I would also rather it were in more comfortable surroundings than these.” He looked around the huge shed and back to its only other occupant.

Watson narrowed his eyes. “Officially or otherwise?” he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Unofficially, of course,” he replied. “Currently, there’s no way Lestrade would sanction me approaching you without an armed guard.”

Watson gave a smile that was half a grimace and turned his head away. He looked back with the light of challenge in his eyes.

“You’re paying,” he announced over his shoulder as he strode off to check in his weapon. Sherlock bowed his head in agreement and gave a half smile.

 

The restaurant Watson chose for lunch was an undiscovered gem, Sherlock decided halfway through a truly excellent Boeuf Bourgignon with garlic mash and steamed seasonal vegetables, accompanied by a Chateauneuf du Pape ’97. It was made all the more memorable by the fact that it was his first proper meal in more than three days.

“Dessert?” Watson suggested after they finished their main courses. The quiet, restful atmosphere and the tasteful, understated décor had relaxed Watson’s extreme vigilance. 

Sherlock shook his head, sipping from his glass. “Overload,” he confided, “my system probably wouldn’t accept it.” Surprised at himself, he looked at the glass in his hand.

_God, how strong is this wine?_

Watson cocked his head. “When did you last eat then?” he asked. Sherlock brushed away the query with a wave of the hand. 

Watson frowned. “Are you in the habit of missing meals, Mr Holmes?” he asked in consulting room style.

“Only when necessary, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock replied in identical tones. 

Watson’s mouth twitched. “John,” he said with a deprecating smile at Sherlock’s surprised blink, “What? You’ve been through my dirty laundry and you can’t call me by my Christian name?” 

_Where in hell has my poker face disappeared to?_

This never happened. Sherlock gave a small frown and stared at the man across the table. John met his gaze levelly.

“John, then,” Sherlock returned gently. “I suppose you’d better call me Sherlock. ‘Mr Holmes’ makes me sound like my brother.”

“I take it he’s not much like you, then?” John returned, draining his wineglass. Sherlock signalled for the waiter and ordered coffee.

“No,” he said, “Mycroft is very different; much more establishment.” 

_Enough is enough. Get back in the driving seat, Holmes._

“Now,” Sherlock said as the coffee arrived. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

John paused to add some cream to his cup.

“I tell you what,” he said conversationally. “For every question you ask me, you have to answer one back. Deal?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not how this works,” he replied. 

John raised his eyebrows. “It’s not?” he said. “Alright then, how _does_ it work?”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “I ask you out to lunch,” he said, “ply you with good food and plenty of wine, then I get you to confess to the murder, cuff you and take you back to The Yard – hey, presto: case closed.”

John nodded. “That should work,” he replied easily, “except that you know as well as I do that I didn’t kill Mike.”

“You could have, though,” Sherlock observed. “You had means, motive and opportunity. In fact, if anyone else but Lestrade were running this investigation, you’d be in custody by now helping the police with their enquiries.”

“Until they talked to the owner of the guesthouse in Chichester,” John returned calmly, “and also my cousin who fixed up the booking for me and with whom I had dinner twice while I was there. A cast-iron alibi is such a nuisance, don’t you think?” 

Sherlock smiled. “You’re a crack shot,” he said apropos of nothing. 

John nodded. “Pretty much,” he replied without a trace of false modesty.

“Seen much action? Some trouble too, I’ll bet?”

“Enough to last a lifetime – far too much.”

“Yet you’re here keeping your skills honed, your reactions fast.” 

John made no reply and he kept his eyes firmly on the tablecloth. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Were you aware that Stamford was shagging Mary?” Sherlock asked baldly. 

John’s head swept up with a sudden flash of anger, quickly suppressed. “God,” he said feelingly, “tactless much, Sherlock?” 

The other man shrugged. “I find diplomacy tedious,” he replied, “It wastes time.”

“Clearly,” muttered John reaching for the coffee pot. He poured himself a refill which Sherlock would have laid bets he did not want to drink.

“I didn’t know about Stamford and Mary, no,” John replied, “but I wasn’t exactly surprised. Mike’s always been partial to blondes and Mary goes for military men,” he spread his hands, “obviously.”

“And this didn’t bother you?” 

John gave him a keen look. “That’s two questions,” he pointed out then he shrugged. “Honestly? It would have made very little difference if it had.” 

John looked down at the table for a moment then pressed his lips together in a firm line.

“Look, Sherlock,” he said, “it was just a bit of fun, Mary and Mike. Of course, I had no idea they were going to use my bed and I’d have been a bit put out about that if I’d known, but I can understand why seeing as Mike’s room is a single. All I hope is that they’d planned to change the sheets afterwards.”

“So you did know about it?” 

“Not precisely, no. I’ve just told you that.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “You see, while I’m not exactly the poster boy for sensitivity and empathy,” he began, “I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels they’re missing something here. You and Miss Morstan are still engaged, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied John firmly.

“Despite the fact that she slept with your friend and then lied about it?”

“People do stupid things,” John replied. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things Mary knows about. She’s forgiven me; I figure it’s my turn now.”

“What things?”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think I agreed to bare my soul, Sherlock.”

“True enough, but anything you can tell me about this matter could have a bearing on whether or not the killer is apprehended. Think very hard, John; very little in this matter is irrelevant.”

John appeared to reflect on that. He stretched out his legs and folded his hands behind his head, stretching his body in an unconscious arc.

“I could see she was attracted to him,” he said finally, “and Mike – well, Mike had never been known to turn a woman down. He and I got up to some tricks…” John’s face softened in reminiscence then twisted wryly.

“I shall miss him very much,” he said. He looked up at Sherlock. “Find his killer.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I will,” he replied with equal certainty.

John signalled to the waiter for the bill and left Sherlock to pay.

 

Outside the restaurant, John glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s three-thirty,” he announced with a grin. “Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.” 

Sherlock smirked. “It was a good meal,” he agreed.

“The company was alright too,” John added. They shared a guarded smile and Sherlock saw a sudden shiver ripple through the other man’s body. The freezing mist was making coronas around the streetlights, dripping down the windows in grey rivulets. Sherlock thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his woollen coat, turned up his collar against the drizzle and started to walk. John followed, unconsciously matching his step.

“So,” he said, “you didn’t play the game.”

“Game?” Sherlock slanted a sidelong glance at him.

John quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he replied. “You know – I answer one of your questions, you answer one of mine. You never answered _any_ of mine.”

_I certainly did._

“I’ll answer them now,” Sherlock replied. “Fire away.

“Okay, umm,” John considered. “Where did you go to school?”

“Eton – really, John, is that the best you can do?”

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Uni?”

“Oxford – do we have to discuss things that are matters of public record?”

“What do your parents do?”

“Exist, at least the last time I checked – I’m rapidly losing enthusiasm for this game.”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and lengthened his stride. 

John struggled to keep pace. “Well, what do you want me to ask?” he demanded. “What will you answer?” 

“Surely you can think up questions that are slightly less mundane?”

“I’m a mundane sort of person – and don’t call me Shirley.” 

Sherlock snorted derisively. “That’s really terrible,” he protested, “did you make it yourself?”

John spluttered with laughter. “Of course I didn’t!” he replied. “Haven’t you heard it before?”

“Should I have?”

“Airplane – you know; the 1980’s comedy film.” 

Sherlock’s face reflected polite incomprehension. 

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oh, Lord, this is an uphill climb,” he replied. “Look, what sort of questions _will_ you answer?” 

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Just – try a bit harder, that’s all,” he ventured.

John drew a long breath. “Okay, then,” he said, “Are you rich or poor?”

Sherlock considered. “I daresay you would probably consider my background to be rich,” he replied “but I myself am not particularly well-heeled.”

“Consulting Detective not a particularly well-paid job, eh?”

“It’s not paid at all.”

“Really?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Payment for my genius?” he said with a moue of distaste, “Beneath me.” 

John looked interested. “So how do you survive?”

“Barely,” Sherlock sighed. “I shall have to give up my flat soon – or find a flatmate.” He shuddered theatrically.

John turned his face away to hide a smile. “Alright, so you’re poor,” he continued. “Okay then – art or science?” 

Sherlock made a sound of disgust. “Really, John,” he said, “Do you need me to answer that one?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John smiled. “I’ve a feeling I might be surprised.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then appeared to think better of it. He bit his lip. “Alright,” he said eventually, “I play the violin, happy now?”

“Really?” John’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, “Any good?”

“Very good.” 

_As if I would do anything by half measures._

“So, do you play in an orchestra or with a pianist?” John pursued. Sherlock tried to imagine himself in the back desk of the firsts and barely suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

“I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock’s lips twitched despite himself. “I find things go rather more easily that way.”

“Things?”

“People.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that,” John agreed. “What do you do in your spare time?”

Sherlock laughed so hard that after repeating the question twice, John gave up.

“Alright then,” John’s face held a look of challenge, “Gay or bi?”

Sherlock’s laughter drained away leaving him the object of a very cool, direct gaze. He felt pinned down; tracked through the sights of a rifle. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and breathed out gently, refusing to lower his eyes.

“I notice you didn’t include straight on your list,” he replied quietly. 

“Oh, please,” Watson turned his head away briefly.

“Very well,” Sherlock responded. “Before I answer that question, I want to be certain that you know what you could be getting into here.”

“ _Could_ be?”

“I haven’t given you an answer yet.” 

John’s face creased into a wry smile and he stepped deliberately into Sherlock’s space.

“Oh, I think you have,” he breathed, smelling of coffee and good red wine. Sherlock stood his ground and waited.

_Shorter than me but broader shoulders, probably heavier; I expect he could take me in a contest of strength. I find that quite arousing. Something’s changed since yesterday – he’s not nervous about this; biding his time, using the opportunity. Trying to rattle my composure, perhaps? Is he serious or just trying to call my bluff? He works in television, but is he a good enough actor for this to be a calculated act? Not enough data yet and too many questions. This is all very ill-advised…_

John reached out with his right hand, fingers ghosting over Sherlock’s jaw, threading their way unhurriedly into his hair. Encouraged by the lack of resistance, he brought the other hand into play with equal slowness, caressing Sherlock’s temple, the shell of his ear, before winding around the back of his neck. John’s smile never wavered and he took every movement one increment at a time, giving Sherlock plenty of notice, plenty of time to back off. Sherlock schooled himself into patience and kept still. 

_Well, this validates one of my suspicions; now all I need is confirmation of its corollary, and that’s going to be a little more difficult._

John’s fingers tightened on Sherlock’s jaw, pulling his head down so he could fit their mouths together with practised ease. He kissed Sherlock with warmth and competence, with the joy of a summer’s day and the frisson of icy winter. Sherlock was abruptly so aroused he could feel the ache in the palms of his hands.

_Accustomed to kissing someone taller than himself; skilled but careful – just a press of lips, nothing else; waiting on my response, slowly in case I react badly, but this is all just for form’s sake – he knows I’m not going to haul off and hit him, I’ve already given that much away several times over._

To his own brief surprise, Sherlock allowed himself to respond. He gripped John’s elbows and shifted position, aligning John’s mouth more firmly under his, deepening the kiss. John gave a tiny sigh and pushed closer, bringing his arms up and around Sherlock’s waist under the woollen coat. He hooked his thumbs in the other man’s belt, the transfer of warmth sending small electric shocks searing into Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock’s hands slithered over John’s shoulders, around the back of his neck and twined into his hair. 

_Coarse and sunbleached still; I’m surprised the network hasn’t ordered him into a hair salon. He seems strangely unconcerned that we’re in a public street; particularly as his management has him so far in the closet he can’t even find the door._

John worked Sherlock’s mouth open with his lips and things abruptly got hotter and messier. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose and gave an abortive thrust against John’s pelvis. John grabbed Sherlock’s hips, fingers digging urgently into his skin, and ground their bodies together with a muffled groan. 

Like a mains switch had been thrown, Sherlock was suddenly drowning. Flailing, uncoordinated, grabbing at John’s body, trying to climb into his skin, Sherlock realised that he had stopped actually kissing John and was now just gasping helplessly into his mouth, completely out of control. 

Mortified, Sherlock drew away, sweating and fighting for composure. John’s eyes were wide and he was breathing hard, but his smile was sympathetic. 

“Been a while, eh?” he said gently. 

Sherlock exhaled heavily and cleared his throat. “You could put it that way, yes,” he replied huskily, raking ineffectual fingers through his unruly hair. 

“Here, let me,” John said, reaching up to smooth down the dark curls. He grinned at Sherlock.

“You’re a bit of a dark horse, you know,” he said, finishing the job with a light caress to Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock caught the hand and held it before it could withdraw. “It’s been said before,” he rumbled. He glanced away, embarrassed, and then shook his head, smiling at his own ridiculousness. 

“I liked it, John; the kissing, I mean,” Sherlock said softly, “I liked it very much. I’d like more.” 

John blinked then nodded and his smile widened. “So would I,” he agreed. “We can have that if you want. We can have it now; today.”

Sherlock nodded almost absently. “Yes,” he replied slowly, “Yes, I’m sure we could. And I’m sure it would be absolutely delightful, but unfortunately I have a small problem with the situation.”

_My brain cells need to reboot, or at least to come back online. What part of me have I been thinking with for the past fifteen minutes?_

“Oh?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Sherlock said again, regaining his balance, “I tend to avoid all kinds of physical interaction with other people on principle. It’s too much of a distraction – the brain is all, you see, everything else is just transport. However, in your case I find, strangely, that I want to do this. I want the distraction John, and that is worrying.” 

John frowned and cocked his head. “Why?” he asked. “I mean, we’re both adults – aren’t we?”

Sherlock smiled and looked at his shoes. He shook his head. “It’s worrying for a number of reasons,” he replied gently, “but the most important reason is that you are not telling me the truth.” 

“What do you mean?” John’s eyes were wide. “You think I don’t want it? Want you?” He pulled Sherlock’s fingers to the front of his jeans.

“Do you think I make a habit of walking around like this?” he demanded. Sherlock firmly removed his hand.

“We’re in public,” he said quietly. “I have enough sway with Lestrade that I think we could avoid an arrest, but imagine the field day the press would have.” 

John shook his head. “I don’t understand you,” he complained.

“People rarely do,” Sherlock replied. “John, I believe you are attracted to me. I also believe you didn’t expect this and you are torn between pursuing me and treating me like an enemy. I know this because the same thoughts and motivations are governing my own actions at the moment and, I have to confess, this state of affairs is wholly alien to me. It makes me question my entire involvement in this case and I believe that was one of the reasons you initiated what has just happened.” 

John’s jaw dropped. “Well,” he said, visibly pushing back his surprise and indignation, “I’ve had performance evaluations from the army that were more charitable!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. John glared but Sherlock just shook his head in dismissal.

“I don’t think your actions were calculated, John,” he replied composedly, “however, I can’t afford to be compromised. I’m sorry, but no matter how badly I want this – and believe me, I do want it very much – I can go no further until you tell me what you know, and by that I mean the truth about Mike Stamford, Mary Morstan and particularly Alex Murray.”

“Alex?” John said, eyes wide in alarm, “Who have you been talking to? Never mind.” He ran his tongue nervously over his bottom lip.

“I depend merely upon my own deductions,” Sherlock replied with more composure than he felt, “and I rarely believe anything based on unqualified assurance.”

“I have never lied to you!” John protested angrily. Sherlock shook his head; John’s ears reddened at the edges.

“Not deliberately, no,” Sherlock conceded, “but there is such a thing as lying by omission. You have been economical with the truth, Doctor Watson, and until you tell me what you know – well, you know the rest.” 

John swallowed, looked away and sighed, then visibly got a grip on himself. He looked back at Sherlock and pressed his lips together firmly. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “No?” he asked gently betraying no surprise. John looked away. Sherlock nodded to himself and tucked his scarf more firmly around his throat against the cold.

“Then I will bid you good day, Doctor Watson,” he said, “until the next time our paths cross. My thanks for your company over lunch; it was – illuminating.” 

With a shallow, formal bow Sherlock Holmes turned on his heel to stride off down the road. Doctor John Watson stood and watched him disappear around a corner before turning and walking in the opposite direction.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock woke gradually and painfully. Daylight splintered in through the gap in the curtains, glancing off his eyes, cutting through his forehead with all the precision of a chainsaw. He peeled his face off his computer keyboard with a groan and rubbed his eyes slowly; it didn’t help.

_What woke me? God, my head hurts. What happened last night?_

Fragments of memory pushed past the pain: the lonely journey back from Bisley; walking back from the tube station in the rain to find a very damp, cold Lestrade waiting for him in the unheated living room; the disappointment and humiliation of having to admit to no further progress coupled with the misery of realising just how impaired his judgment had become. When Lestrade reached for Mycroft’s whisky, Sherlock had followed suit.

The bottle was empty. Sherlock picked it up and swilled the dregs around before putting down in disgust. It had been so easy just to carry on after Lestrade left, he remembered. He had done this once or twice before – purchased a modicum of silence, of stillness in that ever-active brain of his at the price of a monumental hangover – and the cost was always more than the reward; although he knew intellectually that he had achieved the silence, he could never remember it viscerally.

His mobile chimed with a text. Sherlock picked it up and squinted at the letters.

ANSA YR BLOODY PHONE, YOU PRICK.

It was unsigned, but no one addressed Sherlock in that fashion except Lestrade. Swallowing down bile, he speed-dialled Lestrade’s personal mobile.

“About bloody time!” was the greeting, “Get your head out of your arse, Sherlock. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“What’s happened?” Sherlock demanded, trying not to wince. 

“Murray,” Lestrade replied grimly, “Tried to top himself last night; OD’d on morphine. Watson found him – saved his life, I gather. Murray’s in intensive care; he’s stable but it’s been touch and go.”

Sherlock was silent, brain racing ahead.

_Something about Watson? No, this is a panic response – if Watson were responsible, Murray would have done it the previous night. Something’s happened, something new, but what? Not enough data._

“I need to talk to him as soon as possible,” Sherlock said. Lestrade made a noise of disgust.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he replied. “He’s unconscious, Sherlock, and likely to remain so for some considerable time. The medics are still not certain he won’t be brain damaged if and when he finally wakes up. And while we’re about it, you’re in deep, my son. I told you to go easy, didn’t I?”

“Are you saying that Watson’s blaming me for his friend’s suicide attempt?” Sherlock demanded in amazement.

“Not Watson,” Lestrade replied gloomily, “Phelps. He’s made an official complaint, which is going down like a lead balloon with my superiors, I can tell you.”

“Why Phelps?” Sherlock mused to himself, “Why would he want to stop me investigating? What’s in it for him?”

“He might just be concerned about the havoc you’re causing amongst his clients, Sherlock!” Lestrade replied heatedly. “I warned you not to make waves, now I’m sorry but you’re off the case. My hands are tied and I’ve got enough to do to keep the press out of it without fielding your wild shots in the dark. I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock replaced the phone gently on the coffee table and sat thoughtfully for a moment. Coming to a decision, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his coat and scarf, clattering down the stairs.

 

Watson’s face looked grey and old. He sat in the intensive care ward next to the hospital bed containing a very pale Alex Murray who was wired up to every conceivable drip, monitor and tube imaginable. Watson held Murray’s hand and every so often he would run his fingers over the unresponsive skin. Sherlock observed the scene through the window and brought a gloved hand up to the glass.

Sometime later, Sherlock turned his head and drew his feet up preparatory to rising from his chair in the hospital waiting room as John Watson left the room. Watson seemed unsurprised to see Sherlock and simply sighed with weariness.

“He’s stable, thank god,” he said, his voice ragged with relief. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d got there in time and it was touch and go for a while, but he hung on and we think he’s going to make it.”

“I gather you saved his life,” Sherlock said. 

Watson shrugged. “I’m a doctor,” he replied, “that’s what we do.” 

Sherlock nodded faintly and looked away. 

Watson gave him a keen glance and drew in a quick, short breath. “Alright then, Mr Consulting Detective,” he said with a pale smile, “I’m dry as a bone; my turn to buy you coffee, I think. Let’s get out of here and find somewhere that doesn’t smell of rubbing alcohol.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Watson shot back with a puzzled look. 

Sherlock twisted his mouth. “I gather, then, that you do not share the opinions so forcefully expressed by your agent, Mr Phelps?” he replied. 

Watson frowned. “Percy?” he said, and then shrugged. “Percy says a lot of things. Some of them even make sense.” 

Watson gave a tired chuckle. “Look, Sherlock,” he said, “I don’t believe you drove Alex to try to kill himself, alright? Alex is perfectly capable of working himself up to it all on his own without help from anyone else. I’ve known him a long time and although he’s never tried it before, I’ve always wondered if he might.” He patted Sherlock gently on the shoulder. “You’re in the clear, mate,” he said with a faint smile. He jerked his head towards the door.

“Come on,” he said, “Don’t hang about.”

Seeing few other more interesting options, Sherlock did as he was bid and followed John Watson.

 

As they left the Royal Free, Watson immediately hailed a taxi. Sherlock heard him give the cabby the address of an independent coffee house in Camden Town.

“The caffeine content of their regular brew is far too high for human consumption,” Watson confided to Sherlock as they slid into the leather seats. “Their dark roast is even worse – strips the enamel off your teeth – but I really need something to take away the taste of today. That is, if you’re not feeling too health conscious?”

Sherlock glanced out of the window to conceal a contemptuous smirk.

The coffee was indeed strong and black and had the consistency of sump oil, but it tasted like a little piece of heaven on earth. Sherlock could feel the stuff infusing his veins, chivvying his sluggish brain into motion; rallying his body into wakefulness.

“Aaah!” sighed Watson at the first sip. He closed his eyes blissfully. 

Sherlock imagined that look under different circumstances and was amused to realise that he was probably meant to. “Alright, John,” he said, “the coffee’s everything you promised, the venue is comfortable and appealing – what do you want of me?”

Watson took another pull of his drink. “Does there have to be an ulterior motive?” he asked, his eyes wide and guileless, “Can’t we just have coffee together?”

“No,” Sherlock said baldly, “Now can we just get back to the real reason I’m here?”

Watson turned his head to try to hide a smile but failed and started to laugh. After a moment, Sherlock joined him.

“I really am that obvious, aren’t I?” Watson said. 

Sherlock nodded, amused. “Transparent,” he replied, “Now, if you find it hard to make a beginning, allow me to assist: are we here to discuss Alex Murray’s drug dependency or Mary Morstan’s?”

There was a very pregnant pause which served to drain the good humour from John Watson’s face and replace it with an uneasy grimace.

“There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?” he muttered.

“No,” replied Sherlock with a certain amount of smug satisfaction; he had never claimed to be a nice man. He sat back in his chair and gave Watson the floor.

“How did you guess?” Watson asked. 

Sherlock shook his head. “I never guess,” he replied.

“Yeah, you do,” Watson countered easily. 

Sherlock gave a faint smile. “Her behaviour was always unpredictable,” he replied, “The first time I saw her she was unnaturally calm, her reactions were slow and her movements very languid. She was clearly under the influence of some kind of downer. The next time I saw her, she was very agitated, sweating, dilated pupils, unable to keep still. Given the proximity of another user in Alex Murray, I deduced that she was similarly addicted.” 

Watson shook his head. “Alex has nothing to do with Mary,” he said seriously. “Her problems come directly from the job.”

He sighed and drained his cup. Sherlock signalled for a refill.

“It started with the champagne they serve before every catwalk show,” Watson continued. “Pretty soon, that wasn’t enough and someone, god knows who, gave her something else. She’s a mess, Sherlock, with multiple addictions and problems. She really should be in rehab somewhere, but her parents won’t hear of it; they think she can just snap out of it on her own. Percy solved the problem to his own satisfaction by bringing me in, but there’s a limit to what I can do.” 

He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m an army medic, Sherlock,” he said, “not an addiction specialist.”

“And yet you treated Alex Murray?” Sherlock responded. 

Watson looked away. “Alex was an entirely different case,” he replied and closed his mouth. Sherlock waited a few moments for their coffee to be served, and then he leaned forward into Watson’s space.

“Alexander Andrew Murray,” Sherlock began, “Thirty-four years of age, Australian national, studied journalism and photography at Griffith University, Queensland. Emigrated to England on graduation, worked as a chauffeur for a few years while launching his career. His big break came when he was sent to Iraq by one of the major news networks to cover the invasion. He was kidnapped and tortured along with several colleagues, all Iraqi nationals. He was the only one who made it out of there alive. He went on international TV condemning his captors and he named and described them as well as he could, all of which put his life on the line. The bad guys were identified and neutralised by allied forces and Murray was put on several people’s deathlists. He was airlifted out of Iraq and warned to stay away.” 

Watson nodded reluctantly. “You’ve done your homework, that’s clear,” he replied, taking a drink. 

Sherlock smile faintly. “There’s more,” he continued, “Murray had a few lean years after the hue and cry died down. People thought he’d lost his nerve, but out of the blue he accepted a low-key assignment on a documentary which just happened to be filming in Afghanistan, and that’s where he met you.” 

Watson sighed. “I guess there’s no reason to assume you don’t know the rest,” he replied. “Alex had, well, some PTSD after they got him out of Iraq. Not surprising really, but he felt like he was suffocating back in jolly old England,” he gave a humourless laugh, “I know the feeling. Unfortunately, he had been branded a casualty and, despite his ‘war hero’ image, potential employers gave him a very wide berth. He finally got the job in Kandahar, but by that time he’d found his own solution to the jitters and the nightmares, and being in Afghanistan only made the stuff easier to get hold of.”

Watson stopped talking and clenched his jaw, the muscles of his face working.

“You met him, realised the extent of the problem and got involved,” Sherlock continued quietly. “You knew you should have left well alone, but you are a good doctor and a decent human being and your compassionate nature wouldn’t let him suffer.”

Watson’s eyes slid away and down to the tabletop. 

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “It was difficult,” he continued, “well-nigh impossible, I imagine, but you got Murray’s morphine addiction under control. You worried about how he would cope without you when he returned to England so you kept in touch. When you were invalided out, Murray was there to repay his debt of honour. He found you a flat, a job, a mentor and, as an unexpected bonus, a girlfriend. You were amazed, grateful – until you realised that there is no such thing as a free lunch.”

Watson was nodding slowly. “And this situation had more strings attached to it than a piano,” he replied bitterly, “Percy must have thought it was Christmas when I turned up.” 

Sherlock nodded. “You were gift-wrapped for him,” he agreed, “A new client, talented and popular onscreen, a practising doctor to boot; just the thing to look after his star client junkie. When did you find out?”

“About Mary or Alex?” Watson asked.

“Both, I suppose,” Sherlock replied.

Watson shook his head ruefully. “Far too late,” he said. “I should have realised Alex could never go the distance back in England and without my help. With Mary, the doctor in me should have spotted it immediately but in my defence, I wasn’t expecting it. And I was too busy being a hotshot television personality; I’d put medicine behind me.” 

Watson’s tone was bitter. He took a pull of his coffee and looked at Sherlock over the rim of his mug. His face relaxed into a smile and his eyes grew unfocussed. 

“I remember the first time I met her,” he said, “She was so fragile and innocent, but intelligent and charming too. Far too young for me, of course, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter.”

Watson came back to the present with a sharp glance at Sherlock. “I never slept with her,” he said firmly.

“I never asked,” Sherlock replied.

“I know,” Watson said, “but that’s the only redeeming thing I can think of in this situation. By the time I admitted the truth to myself, I was half way to being in love with her.”

“And just as you couldn’t leave Alex Murray to rot, you found yourself bound to help Mary Morstan,” Sherlock murmured, “Just the same.”

“Just the same,” echoed Watson. Sherlock gave him a keen glance but Watson merely smiled ironically.

“So,” he said, “as an encore to my less-than-illustrious career, I found myself presenting an insipid, pointless co-called ‘medical’ slot on daytime TV, living in a mausoleum I couldn’t breathe in, playing nursemaid to two addicts, and in a very public, very fictional engagement.”

“And you’ve never forgiven Murray his part, have you?” Sherlock asked. 

Watson paused then shook his head. “No,” he replied flatly, “and I never will. I’ve had to prescribe things I really didn’t want to without reasonable justification in a court of law, merely because I couldn’t bear to see either of them suffer and Percy refused to have Mary treated in a rehab centre. The media fallout would have ruined him, he said.”

“Didn’t her parents object?” Sherlock asked. 

Watson gave a huff of laughter. “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said all morning,” he replied. “Mary’s parents are in favour of anything that will preserve the status quo, including keeping their darling daughter’s condition a secret. That’s the only reason they sanctioned her engagement to me.” 

Watson laughed. “Me!” he exclaimed, “a retired army doctor with no money, no rank and a minimal pension. They must have been desperate – and I must have been completely off my head.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he replied, quietly, “just in love.”

Watson was silent for a while and when he finally replied his tone was cautious. “That was a test, wasn’t it?” he said. Sherlock said nothing. 

“Alright,” Watson said. “I never loved her; I was dazzled, seduced if you like, but it wasn’t love. I know the difference.”

Watson drained the rest of his drink and rose from his chair, signalling the waiter. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the Royal Free,” he said, fishing a couple of notes out of his wallet and tossing them on the table. “Thanks for that – it’ll keep me awake for a couple of hours now.”

Sherlock said nothing but signalled for another refill which he drank at speed before leaving in the direction of Scotland Yard.

 

The moment he spotted Sherlock approaching from the corridor, Lestrade stood up and walked quickly over to the door of his office, pushing the taller man away from the threshold by sheer body mass. 

“Sherlock! I told you to keep away from this case!” he hissed urgently. “Look, you can’t just take off on your own. I’ve got people breathing down my neck over this – important people. The last thing I need is some kind of vigilante who…”

“This is the man,” Percival Phelps said, elbowing Lestrade to one side. “This is the one who harassed poor Alex Murray until he tried to take his own life!”

“Mr Phelps, please try to calm down,” Lestrade was saying. Phelps shook off his restraining hand and stepped into Sherlock’s space.

“He has been hounding my people, Inspector,” he said, “accusing us of involvement in the murder of Michael Stamford…”

“I have never hounded you,” Sherlock responded coolly, “and you clearly are involved with this crime, Mr Phelps; you own the premises and it doesn’t get more involved than that.”

“Mary Morstan has suffered an emotional breakdown due to this man,” Phelps continued, “and John Watson is a nervous wreck.” 

Sherlock actually laughed. “Mary Morstan belongs in rehab,” he replied, “And John Watson is very far from a nervous anything – the man thrives on danger.”

“What do you know about John Watson?” Phelps practically shouted into Sherlock’s face.

“Not much,” Sherlock admitted, “but enough to know he’s fairly calm considering the circumstances – I’ve just had coffee with him.”

“Just had…” Phelps seemed to run out of steam. Lestrade laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Come along, Mr Phelps,” he said, “My Sergeant’ll see you out and don’t worry: I’ll be having a word with this gentleman just as soon as you’re gone, I assure you. Donovan!”

The sergeant popped her head round the door far too promptly, scowling at Sherlock as she did so.

“Escort Mr Phelps out of the building, will you?” Lestrade said in deceptively mild tones. “He’s leaving now.”

Donovan nodded and took charge of the suddenly quiet Phelps who left without protest. Lestrade glared at Sherlock.

“I warned you,” he spat, “you and your ‘methods’. Now you’re responsible for a suicide and a collapse. I can’t protect you anymore, and I can’t use you either. You’re on the verge of an official warning.”

Lestrade sighed and ran his fingers through his greying hair. “Go away, Sherlock,” he said tiredly, “Go away before you do any more damage.”

To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock did so without protest and left the building shortly after.


	11. Chapter 11

“Sherlock, dear.” 

Sherlock paused in his manic ascent of the stairs to lean over the bannister at Mrs Hudson’s summons. She lifted her face to look up at him, smiling affectionately.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she said in hushed tones. “I’ve sent him up already – I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied, wondering why she seemed so animated by the situation. “I needed to see Lestrade anyway.”

“Oh no, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson gave a tiny, rather smug giggle. “It isn’t the Inspector. This gentleman’s quite the stranger to me but he seems ever so nice.” 

She bustled back into her own flat leaving Sherlock to frown curiously and continue his way up to the first floor flat with a rather more measured tread.

John Watson stood up immediately Sherlock entered the living room. He smiled vaguely at Sherlock then looked away, unconsciously rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs. Sherlock regarded him for a moment in thoughtful silence then smiled faintly.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson,” he said formally, “I trust you are well. How fares Mr Murray?”

“Alex is awake and off the danger list now,” Watson told him, his relief obvious, “He’s got a way to go before he’s back to normal but at least there are no physical ramifications, thank god. He should make a full recovery.”

Watson chewed his lip. “Sergeant Donovan told me what happened earlier at the Yard, I mean, with Percy,” he said, uneasily. “Look, Sherlock, as soon as I heard, I made him withdraw the complaint, alright? I’m quite sure he knows that Alex’s problems have their beginning and end in Alex himself. I’m sorry Percy was such a prize idiot; he’s been under quite a lot of strain recently. He’s had some financial difficulties, lost a few clients and he’s working himself into the ground to make up the slack.” 

Watson looked gloomy. “And things aren’t going to get much better any time soon,” he continued sadly, “not with Mary in full-time rehab now. I’m just waiting for the storm to break; the media fallout is going to be lovely.”

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded. 

Watson lowered his eyes. “She went hysterical last night when she heard about Alex,” he replied. “I had no choice but to call paramedics and check her into a clinic I know and trust. She’s there voluntarily – I didn’t want to get her Sectioned – and with any luck she’ll stay long enough at least to get some perspective. She may just as well grasp the nettle and get clean now because there’s no way we can sweep this under the carpet. Lord knows, the clinic’s used to keeping the lid on famous clients, but honestly there’s little point in secrecy now, not after her involvement in Mike’s… in his murder. I’m afraid the jig is well and truly up for Mary.” 

Watson smiled ruefully and sighed. “I’m just so sorry for her,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Underneath all the neuroses and compensatory behaviour, she’s just a frightened kid. She’s terrified of Percy, you know; he threw such a scare into her over the paps getting dirt on her that she’s almost paranoid about discretion.”

_Phelps is quite a hard-liner when it comes to his” investments”._

Sherlock kept silent.

Watson shuffled his feet then raised his head. “I was wondering if you’d be up for dinner,” he said diffidently, “It’s the least I can do in light of what my agent very nearly did to you.”

Sherlock blinked once, slightly wrong-footed, then recovered. He inclined his head regally.

“That sounds acceptable,” he replied, eyes twinkling. 

Watson – John – smiled in relief. His body visibly relaxed as he moved towards the door. “There’s a little Italian bistro a couple of streets away…” he began, but Sherlock was nodding.

“Angelo’s? Yes, I know the proprietor there…”

 

The calamari were fresh, the angel-hair pasta with mussels was superb and the Vitello Angelo surpassed itself, all served by Angelo himself, grinning all over his (almost) honest Cockney face.

“So,” said Sherlock as they polished off a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio at the window table, “do you eat here often?” 

John stared at him then sniggered. Sherlock frowned quizzically.

“I didn’t think anybody still used that line,” John said then shook his head, “Never mind. Yes, I do visit here on occasion – it’s quiet, the food is fantastic and no one knows who I am.”

“Do people often recognise you then?” Sherlock asked. 

John shrugged. “Sometimes,” he replied, “mostly in restaurants and the like. You know; where they’ve got time to look around and wonder about the other punters.” 

John put down his glass and reached for his panna cotta. “You know,” he said, elaborately casual, “normal people don’t have skulls on their mantelpieces. Or smiley faces drawn on their wallpaper in neon yellow paint. Or bullet holes in the plasterwork, for that matter.”

“Don’t they?” Sherlock replied in bored tones, “Sounds a bit dull.” 

John leaned his elbows on the table. “Sherlock, I’m a doctor not a dentist,” he said apropos of nothing. Sherlock frowned, puzzled.

“Don’t make me pull teeth,” John returned pleasantly, “Look, can we just play that game again, you know? The one where I ask you about yourself and you answer?” 

Sherlock nodded cautiously, unsure if he was being teased or not. “Very well,” he said taking a sip of wine.

“Right,” John blotted his lips with his napkin and smiled broadly, “When did you first realise you were gay?”

“I’m not,” returned Sherlock without missing a beat. 

John paused then gave an almost comical frown. “So you were just letting me amuse myself the other day in the street, then?” he replied, an edge creeping into his voice. 

Sherlock fought down the urge to laugh. “On the contrary,” he replied, “I enjoyed myself very much.”

“You’re mocking me.” John narrowed his eyes. Sherlock shook his head. He looked down at John’s right hand, currently resting on the tabletop, curled around the stem of his wineglass. He slowly moved his own left hand until he could extend his smallest finger to just brush John’s knuckles.

“I’m not mocking you, John Watson,” he replied in very low tones.

“Do you want to do it again?” John said quietly, carefully returning the caress.

 _He thinks he's given me enough of the truth to keep me off his back. Will getting him_ on _his back furnish me with any more, I wonder? After yesterday's demurral, acceptance now implies I'm satisfied with his story. Lull him into a false sense of security? Take him to bed and hope that he's talkative during sex? Is this truly the reason I'm actually considering doing this?_

“Certainly,” Sherlock replied, “although I think I should prefer it if we conducted matters behind closed doors. There may come a point where, as I understand it, we might need a horizontal surface and I would prefer that it weren’t the pavement.”

John promptly inhaled his wine. He wiped tears from his eyes with his napkin, choked back his giggles and stroked Sherlock’s wrist in apology very lightly with an index finger.

“Maybe we could get started on that idea, eh?” he said softly, “Yours or mine?” 

Sherlock made a considering face. “Yours, I think; Mrs Hudson is a light sleeper. What?” he demanded as John’s eyebrows climbed into his hairline and he threatened to choke again. “We have just been discussing horizontal surfaces, so I thought – oh, this sort of thing is always so dreadfully confusing. Have I just offended you?”

“No, no,” John shook his head firmly, “Of course not. I was just taken by surprise, that’s all. Silly of me, don’t worry, it’s fine; it’s all fine.”

John signalled to Angelo for the bill. He reached out his hand to grasp Sherlock’s fingers and as they touched the world turned upside down…

… and John was suddenly prone under the table, dazed and blinking stupidly, showered with glass shards and pinned to the floor by Sherlock’s not inconsiderable bulk. Sherlock immediately sprang to his feet, taking in the scene, identifying the cause of the crash. John’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the bottle, the bright trails of fire, and the flames just catching on the edges of the table linens.

“Molotov cocktail!” John shouted above the hubbub of screaming and panic. “It’s still in one piece for some reason. Quickly! Get the fire out before the bottle explodes!” 

John crawled out from under the table, vaulted over the bar and grabbed for a fire extinguisher, putting out the main blaze before it could spread. He sprayed the nearby tables and the surrounding rugs for good measure, assisted by Angelo with the kitchen extinguisher.

“We were very lucky,” John panted once the flames were out and the emergency services were arriving with noise and bustle, “If that bottle had broken, the whole place would have gone up in one huge fireball. Not many of us would have got out alive.”

Sherlock was inspecting the debris, crouching down to examine the bottle.

“Rags,” he muttered, pulling at the mouth, “but unusually dense weave; linen mix, or pure? Usual type of fuel – stupid, stupid. People just don’t think!” 

Sherlock looked up intercepting a confused look on John’s face. He pointed to the bottle.

“Champagne,” he explained. “Thicker glass bottles to withstand the pressure of the carbon dioxide. That’s why you were able to put it out before it could explode.”

John shook his head. “Seems a bit, well, amateurish, doesn’t it?” he ventured, poking it gingerly with his foot, “And champagne! A strange choice for a terrorist weapon, don’t you think?” He looked up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock smiled without humour. “Oh, he probably got it from a restaurant bin,” he replied airily. “Terrorists are notoriously inefficient when it comes to making their homemade weapons actually do what they are designed to do.” 

John's eyes widened. "You think this is a _terrorist_ attack?" he said.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "It seems rather too crude to be anything else." His eyes did not quite meet John’s.

 

The noise and hubbub of their fellow diners venting their anger and fright suddenly intruded. John straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of one hand.

“I’d better go see if I can do anything to help this lot,” he said. Sherlock frowned up at him, still engrossed in the crime scene. 

John smiled faintly. “Doctor here, you know,” he said, turning away. 

Sherlock stood up to find Angelo at his elbow, worry painted all over his face.

“Sherlock, I swear, I’ve done nothing to make anyone want to torch my place,” he said seriously, “After you got me off that murder charge, I changed my ways; I’ve been a model citizen ever since.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock crisply, “Receiving stolen goods is a far less dangerous profession than burglary, Angelo, but fortunately for you, I don’t believe this attempt at arson, incompetent as it was, had anything to do with you. It was personal, but neither you nor your restaurant were the target. Unfortunately for Doctor Watson, I think someone has just made another attempt to kill him.”

 

Lestrade was absolutely livid.

“How many times do I have to warn you off, Sherlock?” he snarled, “I tell you to keep your distance, throw you off the case, and threaten you with an official reprimand if you poke your nose in again. Next thing I know, I’m called out to a torched restaurant and what do I find?”

“You found me having dinner, Inspector,” Sherlock replied calmly, “with Doctor Watson here.” John smiled amiably.

Lestrade’s eyes flicked over him dismissively. He rounded on Sherlock.

“Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him only yesterday?” he spat, trying to keep his voice at a reasonable level. “Sherlock, for the last time, people are beginning to ask questions, namely, my superiors.”

“Is there a problem, Inspector?” John asked, stepping up to Lestrade’s elbow. “I invited Mr Holmes for dinner this evening in order to try to apologise for Percy’s behaviour in your office today. I’m sorry if I’ve crossed any lines here, but it really was as simple as that.”

“And as I wasn’t here on business,” Sherlock continued, “I believe that Doctor Watson and I are merely material witnesses and can pop in tomorrow morning to give our statements, may we not, Inspector?”

Lestrade looked between the two of them and glared hard at Sherlock but was unable to crack that impassive mask. He sighed heavily and jerked his head to one side.

“Alright, I’ll fit you in tomorrow – off you go,” he said narrowing his eyes at their departing backs.

“You just lied to the police,” John said accusingly as they walked away.

“Did you want to spend all night waiting to give a statement?” asked Sherlock, raising both eyebrows. John flushed slightly and shook his head, “Well, then.”

“Let’s get a cab,” John said, “It’s a bit far to walk.”

Without waiting for a reply, he flagged down a passing taxi and opened the door giving directions to Hampstead.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock prowled about John’s flat refreshing his memory while John made some totally unnecessary coffee. It was a strange feeling, returning to premises that only recently had been a crime scene; a very odd sensation to realise that the possessions he had rifled through and deciphered with such freedom were now, for the sake of decency, out of bounds.

“Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen, “could you bring in the spare coffee scoop? The one in the coffee jar seems to have gone AWOL. It’s in the middle drawer of the sideboard.”

“Incompetents!” muttered Sherlock pulling on the handle, “Call themselves SOCOs, they couldn’t find an elephant in a department store, even if it were…” His fingers brushed against a groove in the drawer face and with a quiet click, a tiny spring-loaded panel sprang out of the wood, totally invisible unless you knew where to look. Curiously, Sherlock slid his hand into the gap to touch something that crinkled quietly. He gripped it carefully between thumb and forefinger and drew it out. An old envelope, the paper yellowing and the glue no longer sticky but containing something stiffer than the paper itself. He turned it over, carefully easing open the flap, and withdrew a photograph.

It was a simple snapshot caught during a relaxed moment some years ago, that much was evident. The setting was a public park, Sherlock was unsure which one, evidently during late spring or early summer judging by the fresh green of the trees. One of the subjects was a man in his twenties, in the prime of his physical attractiveness and, heavens, was he a beauty! Tall and slender with glossy dark hair which swept over his face in a too-long fringe, smoky brown eyes and alabaster skin to die for, he reclined on a green painted park bench with his arm casually slung over the back and around the shoulders of a much younger man, a teenager. The boy was quite small in height but stocky with broad shoulders, dressed casually in jeans and a blue tee-shirt with Nike trainers. His hair was blond, his eyes were blue and his resemblance to John Watson was uncanny.

“Sherlock?” John called again from the kitchen, “Did you find it?”

Sherlock blinked and his brain returned to reality like lightning. He slipped the photograph and its envelope into an inside pocket and rummaged around purposefully in the drawer for cover before handing John the measure.

“Thought you’d got lost,” John grinned, taking the small item and returning to the kitchen. Sherlock smiled back but his eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin absently, his mind racing ahead.

John brought in the coffee on a tray together with milk, sugar and something biscuit-like which claimed to be Italian. 

“Black with sugar,” observed John when he had served the coffee to their liking, “Your teeth must be dissolving.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I clean them morning and evening,” he replied, “They seem to work. Besides, sugar is brain food; gives a reasonable high when I need it.”

“Does everything revolve around thinking for you, then?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, “I have always considered myself married to my work, although recently I have noticed that I am not averse to the idea of having a mistress.”

It was a charmingly old-fashioned way of expressing the sentiment and John’s eyes crinkled in appreciation. He chuckled. “Come on, then,” he said, smiling, “tell me about yourself – you promised you would.”

“I said I would answer your questions,” Sherlock replied, “not give you a PowerPoint presentation.” 

John shook his head. “I just want a quick resume,” he replied, “I can wait for the details.”

That sounded promising. Sherlock found himself smiling back. “Fire away with your questions,” he said, leaning back against the generous upholstery, “and I’ll try to answer as honestly as I know how.”

“Alright,” John replied, “Ah, let’s see – boyhood ambition?”

“Train driver.”

“It was not!”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sherlock was already enjoying himself, “Believe it or not, after I had recovered from my brief desire to be a pirate, I only ever wanted to be a detective. The consulting part of my job came later when I realised the, ah, structure of the world.”

“Okay, then – pet hate?”

Sherlock considered. “If I was going to be flippant, I’d say Anderson in Forensics at the Yard,” he said, his mouth twisting in dislike, “but if I were being serious, I think I would have to say stupidity, although my brother Mycroft comes a close second.”

John held his hands up in surrender. “Sibling rivalry – not going there,” he announced with a grin. “Alright – first kiss?”

“Are we teenagers, John, or grown adults?”

John put down his coffee mug, smiling and shaking his head. “I can’t make you out,” he confessed. “You send these mixed messages; on the one hand you don’t bother to hide that you’re physically attracted to me, but when I try to get closer you fob me off with half-answers, cyphers. I told you the truth, Sherlock. You don’t have to distrust me anymore.”

The phrasing was interesting. Sherlock rolled the concept around in his mind for a moment or two, before leaning forward, chin in hands.

“How about _you_ tell _me_?” Sherlock suggested. “Why don’t you give me the things about yourself that you want to know about me,” he explained in answer to John’s puzzled look.

“And you’ll return the favour?” Sherlock hesitated fractionally before nodding; only by a slight narrowing of his eyes did John let on that he had noticed.

“Okay,” John sat back on the sofa.

“I’ve known I was bi almost all my life,” he began with disarming frankness. “My first kiss was with my mate Paul who lived down the road, just to see if we liked it. He didn’t, I did. I dated girls in school because it was easier, but I was pretty egalitarian at uni. I joined up straight after my med training partly to escape the hue and cry of my sister Harry’s coming out as gay. The military frowns on same-sex relationships so I mostly dated girls.” He gave a wicked grin. “Managed a few blokes on the quiet, though,” he added matter-of-factly. “I’ve never been married and only ever been engaged to Mary.”

Sherlock paused. “Can I ask you questions?” he enquired. John shook his head.

“Not till you return the favour,” he replied firmly. Sherlock nodded.

“I didn’t discover sex until Oxford,” he said in a thoughtful tone. “An all-male establishment is an insult to the hormones but somehow I managed to avoid any and all complications at Eton. I was lucky, I think; after all, I was brilliant, arrogant and pretty enough to make certain people want to take me down hard. Fortunately, those who could have made my life hell feared what I would do in retaliation; quite rightly as it turned out.”

“So what happened at Oxford?” John prompted.

“Girls,” Sherlock replied succinctly, “and boys too. Whilst at Eton, I was made aware, forcibly, of my social obliviousness and my terminal inability to pick up cues. I joined the dramatic society and learned how to fake the appropriate behaviour to obtain the desired response. At Oxford, I used my training to, um, experiment.”

“You mean, you changed your character in order to seduce people?” John said incredulously.

“Well, yes,” Sherlock admitted, looking slightly awkward. 

John gaped at him then burst out laughing. “Lord, you don’t do things by halves, do you?” he remarked, shaking his head. “How did it work out?”

Sherlock shrugged. “As well as could be expected, I suppose,” he replied, “I spent my first term preparing the ground; the second, ah, getting on with it; and the third, well, dealing with the consequences.”

John laughed even louder at this. “Let me get this straight,” he said, “You spent a ten-week term shagging multiple partners of both sexes and had to spend the following term running for your life?”

“More or less, yes,” Sherlock said, scratching his head. “I gave it up as a bad job after that.”

He felt uncomfortable acknowledging this to someone else, particularly someone on whose person he had certain designs.

“So you haven’t,” John made a complicated gesture that Sherlock took to meet some kind of physical congress, “since you went down from Oxford?”

 _And isn’t_ that _an unfortunate phrase in this context?_

“Well, no – I haven’t,” Sherlock admitted. John’s forehead creased in a small frown.

“Not even once?” he said, disbelieving. “I mean, that Inspector of yours…?” John trailed off deliberately with raised eyebrows. 

Sherlock stared. “Lestrade?” he managed. 

John nodded. “Yeah, that’s the bloke,” he replied. “What? He’s pretty fit for a man of fifty-odd and he’d definitely be up for it if you were.”

_Hells bells and buckets of anything nasty and corrosive that will scrub that picture out of my mind._

Sherlock managed to shake his head. “I promise you, John,” he began, “on my dear brother’s life – may his soul rest in peace very, very soon – that I have never entertained the slightest thought about the good Inspector that wasn’t entirely decorous…”

“Oh, I know,” John interrupted cheerfully, “I was just checking – you really are clueless, aren’t you?”

Sherlock gave John his Number Six Glare which had been known to reduce seasoned MI5 agents to snivelling for their mothers. John grinned back cheerfully then reached forward to run a thoughtful hand over Sherlock’s stubbled cheek, lightly caressing the skin behind his ear with the pads of his fingers. Sherlock shivered and leaned into the touch ever so slightly.

John laughed lightly. “Clueless,” he murmured, “and so, so beautiful.” He brought his other hand up to cup Sherlock’s jaw. The movement brought them much closer and Sherlock could feel the heat radiating off John’s body, smell his scent.

“Gorgeous,” John carded careful fingers through Sherlock’s wayward hair, skimming over the bones of his skull. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed as the gentle massage went on, smoothing the tightness out of his body. He felt his shoulders abruptly give way as the tension bled out of them.

“That’s right,” John whispered, lips just grazing Sherlock’s earlobe, “You’re safe here with me. Everything’s good, fine. I’m going to relax you, help you unwind, and then I’m going to take you into my bedroom, spread you out on my bed and worship your body until you beg.”

“Oh, God!” husked Sherlock, his eyes wide and his erection already painfully constricted by his clothes; he shifted minutely. John gave him a look almost of awe and shook his head wonderingly.

“Look at you,” he muttered. “You’re minutes away from coming in your pants. I’ve never had anyone that hot for me, it’s amazing – unbelievable.”

“It’s all very well for you,” Sherlock grated between his teeth as he fought for some faint degree of control. John ran soft lips along his jaw and bit gently at the corner; Sherlock groaned helplessly.

“I’m just as turned on,” John said, working his way back to Sherlock’s mouth. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled before dipping his head to fit their mouths together, cradling Sherlock’s jaw in both hands.

Sherlock swallowed the harsh cry that threatened to seriously embarrass him, and clenched his fists hard in the fabric of John’s shirt, trying to check his wild response. John grazed his teeth over Sherlock’s lower lip just hard enough to sting and when he opened his mouth to gasp, John followed through, deepening the kiss, tangling their tongues and groaning into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock rode the crest of the wave for a dizzying few seconds then he pulled away panting, holding John’s shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length. John’s face creased in concern.

“Too much?” he asked gently. 

Sherlock exhaled heavily, trying to catch his breath. “Way too much,” he replied, “and I want more; all you have to give. The problem is,” he rubbed at his jaw ruefully, “if you continue in the same fashion, it will all be over bar the shouting very, very quickly.”

Sherlock breathed out hard again and raked his hand restlessly through his hair. He looked away then looked back at John with huge, naked eyes. 

“I have been celibate for more than a decade,” he said with quiet dignity; he chuckled weakly. “Your appearance was, as you might say, a turn-up for the book, John.”

John’s mouth twitched as though he was suppressing a smile and Sherlock was grateful to him for the effort. John did not speak but rose from the sofa offering a hand. Confused, Sherlock took it and was pulled to his feet.

“Let’s go to my bedroom now,” John said quietly and nodded towards Sherlock’s trousers. “That’s a bespoke suit, isn’t it? I’m sure you’d rather avoid the dry-cleaning bill and I would appreciate being able to see you naked before it’s all over for the night. You can hold out that long, can’t you?”

Eyes wide and mouth pink and wet, Sherlock tilted his head and kissed John again, running his hands over the other man’s shoulders and into his hair.

“Well, isn’t that romantic?”

The voice was flat and sarcastic, edged with anger and something else less clean. John spun away from Sherlock, breathing hard, automatically stepping in front of the other man. The gesture prompted derisive laughter.

“Oh, John; John!” Percival Phelps moved out of the shadows in the doorway into the light. His lips were smiling but his face was stony.

“Always the protector,” he continued, “really, you can take the man out of the army, but you’ll never take the army out of the man.”

“Percy,” John said breathlessly, “what are you doing here?”

Phelps shrugged. “It’s my flat,” he replied carelessly, “I have a right to check up on maintenance issues.”

“But I don’t have any,” John protested, “except the damage to the carpet in the hall, and the police were responsible for that.”

“Yes, such a pity,” Phelps shook his head regretfully. “Top quality Persian silk – irreplaceable, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Sherlock said.

Phelps turned a very dark gaze onto him.” I beg your pardon?” he replied in tones frosty enough for Moscow in January. 

Sherlock’s expression did not change. “You are surely aware of the emporium on Dean Street in the London Borough of Hackney?” he asked coolly. 

Phelps brushed the question aside. “I have never been there in my life,” he replied loftily. “I keep away from such places.”

“A pity,” Sherlock replied and was silent. John cleared his throat.

“Percy, what are you doing here?” he repeated. Phelps seemed to recollect himself, blinking furiously.

“John,” he began in a conspiratorial fashion, “unfortunately, I’m afraid I have a tiny, tiny bone to pick with you.”

“And what’s that, then?”

“The little matter of your lying to me.”

John paused for a moment frowning then shook his head. “Offhand, I don’t recall any time I’ve lied to you, Percy,” he replied staring straight into the man’s face.

Phelps smiled indulgently. “Memory can be so selective, don’t you find?” he said, “For example, when we first met, John, you assured me that you were heterosexual. That little fact appears to have slipped your mind this evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

John frowned and cocked his head slightly. “I don’t remember…” he began, but Phelps interrupted.

“As has also the small matter of your engagement to Mary,” Phelps continued, “You seem to be subject to a convenient amount of selective amnesia this evening, wouldn’t you say?” He shook his head pityingly.

“John, you’re a thirty-eight year old veteran with an injured shoulder and a psychosomatic limp,” Phelps told him. “When we met, you had no money, no prospects and no future. I gave you purpose, fame, a six-figure salary and a high-profile occupation, not to mention a rich, beautiful fiancé fifteen years your junior with family and connections to die for. Yet you choose to throw all this in my face for a cheap hook-up with a psychopathic ex-junkie who has a criminal record, a reputation for wanton destruction of property and a collection of psychiatric evaluations that would rival the Yorkshire Ripper.”

“Now just hold on one minute!” John began furiously, but Phelps was clearly on a roll and carried on as though he had not spoken.

“And it’s not as though you were unaware until now of your tendencies, John, or even in the closet,” he continued. “Suppose I were to ask you about your head nurse, Peterson, during your first tour of duty in Iraq? Or Captain Chris Yendole during firearms training on Dartmoor? Indeed, I could even go back as far as your lab partner during your third year at Edinburgh – Rawsthorne, wasn’t it?”

John’s expression turned stony. “I don’t recall swearing on the Bible or any other icon of truth that I never had or never would play for the other team, Percy. In point of fact, I distinctly remember telling you to mind your own bloody business. You obviously ignored that – how the blazes did you find out, and where do you get off prying into my past life anyway?”

“Where and how I got my information is immaterial,” Phelps returned swiftly, “This is not about me or my methods, it’s about you. I’m rather disappointed our recollections of the same conversation are so disparate, John. You certainly led me to believe you weren’t even bi-curious, even when faced with Alex Murray’s obvious fawning devotion. I trusted you, John, to tell me the truth.” 

John’s eyes slid away. “I told you I wasn’t interested in Alex as a partner or boyfriend, significant other or whatever you want to call it,” he replied evenly. “That much is absolutely true. Anything else you chose to infer from that one brief conversation is entirely your own invention.”

“You told me you were in love with Mary,” Phelps countered contemptuously. “Clearly you were being economical with the truth there too.”

John glared. “That’s enough, Percy,” he replied, “For the record, I was besotted with Mary from the outset – they say there’s no fool like an old one – and even when I realised the truth about her, I still cared enough to stick with her, despite this media circus of yours. I thought we could make a go of it at least until she was clean. I wanted to do right by her, look after her. That should have been enough for you. After all, that was what you employed me for, wasn’t it?”

“So dramatic!” Phelps sighed. “Dear boy, I employed you because you are a natural for television. Your relationship with Mary was, well, extremely _convenient_ , but also very good for the publicity machine, whereas this…” he sneered disdainfully in Sherlock’s direction, not deigning to complete the sentence. Sherlock stared at him impassively.

“And that’s another thing,” John raged back. “Just who do you think you are throwing baseless accusations like that around about someone you barely know? Psychopathic, criminal, addict … Even if Sherlock did have to undergo psych evals, I can’t imagine how you’d ever know about it let alone have access to the documents.”

“Actually, I fear neither of your last statements is strictly true, John,” Sherlock interrupted, speaking for the first time, in clipped tones. “I do indeed have a string of the things to my name, and I’ve no doubt that Mr Phelps has read them in enthusiastic detail.”

John’s head jerked up; he stared at Sherlock. “How?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I would like to say my brother – he occupies a minor position in the British Government – but I fear my childhood doctors would have been a much easier nut to crack than Mycroft. Mr Phelps may hug himself; his methods are on a par with my own.”

Sherlock took a slow breath but his face did not move a muscle.

“He forgets to mention that I am a _bona fide_ genius with an IQ off the scale,” he continued quietly. “Also that I have certain personality traits associated with so-called Asperger’s Syndrome – lack of empathy, extreme impatience, very low boredom threshold, etc. etc. I am prone to periods of extreme, almost catatonic inactivity and also to certain acts which could be interpreted as mindlessly violent. I have a criminal record for possession of cocaine, although my association with the drug was so brief it could be described as experimentation rather than addiction. However, most medical professionals will tell you it’s often difficult to tell the difference. Again, Mr Phelps may accept congratulations.”

Sherlock turned to Phelps. “You skimped on your research,” he told the other man. “I’m sure if you had dug just a little deeper, you could have uncovered the mysterious and unexplained death of my brother’s pet hamster when I was four.”

“Sherlock,” John began, placing a warning hand on his arm. Sherlock suddenly jerked away from his touch as if he had been stung, wide-eyed and breathing hard through his nostrils. John held his hands up, palms outermost in the classic gesture of surrender.

“Okay, okay,” he said, alarmed. Sherlock stared at him, and then visibly pulled himself together.

“And if we’re raking over murky past history, Mr Phelps, what shall we say about yours?” Sherlock continued, regaining some of his balance. 

Phelps frowned. “This isn’t about me,” he responded quickly. 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Isn’t it?” he replied. “On the contrary, I think it’s _all_ about you, Mr Phelps. Would you like me to give you chapter and verse?”

“I would like you to _go_ , Mr Holmes,” Phelps said, finally betraying some irritation. “You are irrelevant, you do not belong here. Please, just leave.”

Sherlock paused for a moment then inclined his head in a stiff little bow. “Goodbye John,” he said quietly and made for the door.

“What the…?” John tried to head him off but Sherlock’s greater mass simply mowed him down like so much late summer hay and he was gone with a swirl of his coat and a slam of the door.

“Sherlock!” John shouted after him. He started to follow, was stopped in his tracks as Phelps gripped his arm with a gloved hand.

“Let him go, John,” he said gently. “It’s for the best.”

John rounded on him and wrenched his arm away. “Haven’t you done enough damage for one night?” he said between gritted teeth. Percy raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Oh, come on, John,” he said drily. “You’re not going to play the lovelorn hero now, are you? This man, Holmes, he’s not worth your notice. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t do a little checking yourself. He’s not the kind of person you want to associate with, certainly not in your profession; he would be very bad for business.”

“Oh, really,” John returned sarcastically.

“Yes, really,” Phelps replied, a harder edge to his voice. “John, you’re not thinking about this – well, at least not with what’s in your head. Sherlock Holmes has a certain – reputation.”

John glared at Phelps. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

Phelps gave a small sigh. “He’s a psychopath, John; a headcase who only escaped a custodial sentence for multiple infractions, including drug offences, burglary and actual bodily harm by the skin of his teeth and the fact that his brother has influence. He dropped out of Oxford half way through his PhD in forensic criminology because of an alcohol habit and increasingly aberrant behaviour. Balliol College is not known for its tolerance, but even the most lenient of institutions would be obliged to take action over a scout traumatised by discovering human body parts in the kitchen.”

John stared. “How do you know all this?” he demanded, finding his voice.

Phelps smiled. “I have my contacts,” he replied. “I make it my business to protect my commercial ventures, and make no mistake, John, you represent some considerable investment on my part and I will not stand by and see all of that destroyed by an ill-considered liaison.

“John, listen,” he said more gently, “Mr Holmes wasn’t wrong about my knowing the contents of his psychiatrists’ reports. He does indeed have psychopathic tendencies, criminal ones, but the real source of my worry is you, John, your emotional involvement; your heart.”

John frowned. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Don’t get defensive,” Phelps replied mildly, “I am merely trying to explain to you that your expectations when it comes to Sherlock Holmes are not only unwise, they are likely impossible. He is undeniably brilliant – his tutors at Eton and Oxford were hard-pressed to keep up with him – but his emotional development is stunted, almost non-existent. The psychiatrist who interviewed him aged eighteen judged him incapable of sustaining any kind of emotional relationship; he refused further evaluations in later years – rather forcibly, I understand.”

John brushed this aside like an irritating insect. “That’s irrelevant,” he said. “Sherlock is in his thirties now; things change.”

“Not that much,” Phelps shook his head. “John, he slept with the Attorney General’s daughter, for god’s sake. She was a straight A student until she met him. She had to have therapy for months afterwards and a year out to get her head back together. As for the young men he seduced, one of them, a brilliant physicist, disappeared a month before Finals. His parents found him in a squat in Bermondsey drugged up to the eyeballs. He never did finish his degree – such a waste.”

“And you’re certain beyond all doubt that these things relate directly to Sherlock?” John countered. “I don’t see how you can be.”

Phelps shrugged. “Maybe not, but his involvement in a serious arson case in North London a year ago is not an encouraging factor. He was arrested but never charged – not enough evidence apparently. More likely his brother’s influence yet again.”

Phelps fell silent. John swallowed and breathed out gustily through his nose. He turned his head to one side and raked a hand agitatedly through his hair.

“John,” Phelps began but John held up a quelling hand.

“I think I’d like you to go now, Percy,” he said quietly.

Phelps looked at him with an expression of sympathy but contented himself with patting John lightly on the shoulder.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow. Don’t forget – early strategy meeting.”

John gave no sign of hearing him and with a final pat to his arm Phelps left the flat, his face fixed in a frown. The pattering of his footsteps on the stairway gradually faded and the muted thump of the outer door was succeeded by silence. 

From the shadows on the first floor landing, a tall figure slowly emerged, tucking, of all things, a doctor’s stethoscope into the inner pocket of his voluminous coat. He paused for a moment by John Watson’s front door, then glided noiselessly past and descended the stairs rapidly.

During his unashamed eavesdropping, Sherlock had heard little that he did not already know, but the blinding flash of insight that hit him after Phelps had left propelled him out of the building, down Tennyson Gardens and on to Grosvenor Street at a run.

Alex Murray’s studio was deserted and locked up tightly. Sherlock sized up the access, concluding that a frontal assault with the lock picks was the only possible ingress and set about it with the confidence borne of the truly egotistical. Within a few minutes, the bell over the lintel announced his entry to anyone actually inside the studio but a few swift strokes of his long-nosed pliers put paid to the alarms. Sherlock stopped in the doorway and surveyed the interior.

Clearly Murray lived in the flat above, but Sherlock deduced that what he was looking for would be hidden in the studio. It only took him ten minutes to locate the loose floorboard under the rug – _really, people are so predictable_ – and remove the carefully-wrapped package. Slipping it into a convenient carrier bag, Sherlock replaced the furnishings and took his leave, taking care to lock the door behind him. The alarms could wait until Murray was back in circulation; the external boxes alone would deter anyone less skilled.


	13. Chapter 13

Lestrade found him the following afternoon.

Prone upon his sofa, one arm over his eyes, boxes of paper and piles of books interspersed with glassware and rubber tubing which rightly belonged in an old-fashioned chemistry lab still fighting with the furniture for space in the cramped living room, Sherlock lay unmoving.

“For christ’s sake, have you done nothing since you moved in?” said Lestrade, poised disbelievingly on the edge of the hallway carpet, head poking gingerly around the doorway.

“I’ve been working on the Stamford Affair, Lestrade, just in case you hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock replied without moving. 

“And you’ve been ignoring my texts,” Lestrade announced, stepping cautiously into the room and picking up Sherlock’s phone from where it lay on the sofa arm. Sherlock jacknifed upright and snatched it out of Lestrade’s hands.

“Give that back,” he said unnecessarily. Lestrade raised a speculative eyebrow.

“Looks like someone else is getting the cold shoulder too,” he commented, shaking his head. “Well, well; fifty-three messages from JWatson, all unanswered. What’s that about eh, Sherlock?”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” Sherlock replied, lying back, pocketing his phone and returning his arm to his eyes. Lestrade smiled.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he commented.

“Where _do_ you get that idea?” Sherlock shot back in a bored tone of voice. 

Lestrade actually laughed. “Come on, Sherlock,” he said, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “If you weren’t at Angelo’s on business last night, then you must have been on a date. A date with the infamous John Watson, erstwhile murder victim suddenly risen from the dead and now a chief suspect.”

“John’s not the killer,” Sherlock returned quickly. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor. 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “No, I don’t think he is,” he replied, “but he’s certainly involved. Just how involved is another question. My question for you, however, is what in God’s name do you think you were doing having a cosy little romantic dinner with him?”

“Clearly nothing, Inspector,” Sherlock replied, “as you yourself can verify by my consistent lack of response to his text messages. Do try to keep up.”

“What, you mean you actually _were_ on business? God, Sherlock, that’s low even for you,” Lestrade’s frown deepened. 

Sherlock sighed in irritation. “Look, Lestrade,” he said, “who I see on my own time is my affair, and my affair only.”

“Unless it actually _is_ an affair and with a chief suspect,” Lestrade threw back. “What’s happened to you? You’ve always considered normal things like, well, dating to be beneath your notice.”

“That is unchanged, Inspector,” Sherlock replied frostily.

“So it wasn’t a date,” Lestrade pressed, “but John Watson evidently thinks it was, judging by the tone of his text messages, yes?”

“I can’t help what he thinks.”

“But is he wrong?”

There was a long pause.

“I may have…” Sherlock paused in a most uncharacteristic manner. Anyone who did not know him well could perhaps have inferred that he was – regretful? 

Sherlock cleared his throat self-consciously. “It is possible that certain actions of mine could have been, ah, misinterpreted,” he finally managed. 

Lestrade snorted inelegantly. “Now, _there’s_ a surprise!” he said sarcastically. “What did you do? Ask him to volunteer as an experimental subject?”

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “It’s not important,” he said.

“It clearly is,” argued Lestrade.

“Then I don’t want to talk about it, is that clear?” Sherlock stood up and went to the kitchen.

“Milk, two sugars,” Lestrade called after him, settling down in Sherlock’s recently vacated seat and perching his feet on the table: he was going to enjoy this.

 

Two cups of tea and half an hour’s relentless grilling later, Sherlock’s phone chimed with a text alert and he clutched at it desperately.

“Let it go – you can read it later,” Lestrade told him putting out a restraining hand.

Sherlock cringed inwardly. This was intolerable. Lestrade was like an entire Government Select Committee in one person; Sherlock should know, he’d sneered at Mycroft often enough on the subject. Sherlock’s increasing rudeness and outright hostility was rolling off Lestrade like an amateur burglar off an icy roof. The man was still giving him the third degree and Sherlock would sooner swallow glass shards than allow his personal life to be dissected by _anyone_ , let alone a professional colleague who counted Anderson as one of his team. Sherlock scrolled back through Watson’s texts from that morning alone:

 

JWatson  
0745  
Look, I’m sorry about Percy. At least let’s meet up and talk about it.

JWatson  
0750  
Alright, I’m really sorry. Please answer this.

JWatson  
0810  
I’m serious, you know. I meant what I said last night.

JWatson  
0815  
I mean, I meant what I said before Percy interrupted.

JWatson  
0817  
Look, just answer this, will you.

JWatson  
0820  
Giving up – trying to ring you now.

*missed call*  
*missed call*  
*missed call*  
*missed call*

JWatson  
0835  
Answer your phone, you tosser!

JWatson  
0836  
I’m sorry I called you a tosser. Please answer your phone.

JWatson  
0840  
Ansa yr phone!

Sherlock sighed and averted his eyes from the rest. John had sunk into textspeak which Sherlock could not abide; he, of course, used correct spelling and full punctuation. There was also a plethora of messages all from the previous evening. At around 9am, John clearly had business elsewhere and the attempts at contacted abruptly ceased. Sherlock was worryingly unsure whether he was relieved or disappointed.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” Lestrade said, waving a hand under Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock blinked confusedly and, as his phone rang, answered it without really thinking.

“Thank God!” came John Watson’s voice over the ether, “I thought I was never going to get you to talk to me. Sherlock, whatever you do _don’t hang up!_ Okay? Just keep on the line. If you wimp out on me now, I’m going to run out of minutes and probably texts too and I’ll be forced to break into your apartment. See? I’m going about this in a civilised fashion at least – I could have already come to Baker Street and kicked your front door in.”

“It’s made of solid wood reinforced with MDF,” Sherlock intoned flatly. “You’d break your foot before you got in.”

“It speaks!” Watson’s voice was redolent with relief. “Listen, Sherlock, we have to talk. I’ve been in a meeting for the past two hours and I’m on a quick break now before the next bit. Meet me for dinner this evening, okay? I’ll be waiting outside Angelo’s at 7 and I’ll be there until 7.30. Text me if you’re going to be late, but if you don’t come – well, I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

During this monologue, Sherlock frowned hard at Lestrade and made shooing motions with his hand. Lestrade grinned but glanced at his watch and got to his feet obediently. He left the room with a farewell gesture and his footsteps could be heard descending the stairs.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you there?” John’s voice held a trace of panic.

“Just getting rid of an uninvited guest,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh, Lestrade, I suppose,” John said, something faintly disapproving in his tone. “Has he gone yet?”

Sherlock craned his neck to the landing. “Just now,” he replied. “Why?”

“Never mind,” John sounded harried and impatient. “Look, will you be there? Angelo’s at 7?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” said Sherlock and hung up.

 

The distraction was intolerable. Sherlock paced up and down his living room; even his violin provided no respite. He was tempted to go down to Speedy’s for cigarettes, but he knew that if he did, Mr Chatterjee would grass him up to Mrs Hudson and he would never hear the end of it. He ran his hand feverishly over the three nicotine patches currently decorating his right forearm; they just weren’t cutting it today.

Sherlock stood by the window and peered out over the London skyline, watching the traffic endlessly streaming past; a never-ceasing flow of humanity going about its business.

_I have it. I have it all; I just have to grasp it and force it out into the open. Most of the pieces are in play now and I have deduced the shape and size of the missing ones. It’s childsplay. I know the solution and I’ve known it for days, I just – don’t know that I want to use it._

Sherlock opened the sash and leaned his elbows on the sill.

 _I’m lying to myself. I’ve never been one for self-delusion, but I’m doing it now. I can’t allow this-this_ aberration _to derail me, I have to move past this distraction_

 

Sherlock arrived at Angelo’s at 7.15 to find John Watson waiting for him as promised.

John’s face lit up on sighting Sherlock and he grinned, wide and genuine. “I’d almost persuaded myself you weren’t going to turn up,” he told him. 

Sherlock smiled tightly and shrugged. “I nearly didn’t,” he replied. John’s smile wavered slightly but her recovered well.

“We can eat here if you’d like,” he said, “but there’s a little Turkish place a couple of streets away that’s just opened, if you’d like to try it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer it if you would come back to Baker Street with me. If you wouldn’t mind, that is?”

John looked surprised. “Certainly I’ll come with you. What, do you fancy a quiet evening in with a takeaway and some telly, or something?”

“Definitely _something_ ,” Sherlock muttered quietly as he turned to lead the way.

 

John seemed rather surprised to find 221B in the same squalid state as it had been the last time he called. He stepped carefully over some unidentified electrical equipment and stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor between a vending machine of the chrome and steel kind formerly found in railway stations and cinema foyers and a large stuffed alligator. Sherlock gestured to the sofa.

“Sit down, John,” he said quietly, “this won’t take long.”

John frowned in puzzlement but sat down where Sherlock indicated obediently and looked up at him enquiringly. The other man picked up a parcel wrapped in a brown jiffy bag from his desk and placed it on the coffee table.

“Go on,” Sherlock jerked his head towards the parcel. “Open it. I don’t imagine this will be the first time you’ve seen it.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment then flicked his gaze down to the parcel. He did not touch it nor did he read the address, he just closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded quietly. He looked up. “Where, Sherlock?”

“Alex Murray’s studio,” Sherlock replied expressionlessly, “Hidden under a loose floorboard – pathetically easy to spot.”

John nodded. “I suppose you’ve examined the contents – in detail?”

Sherlock nodded mutely. John sighed; he rose to his feet and looked Sherlock in the face.

“You were right,” he said sadly, “it didn’t take long at all. I’ll find my own way out.”

He stepped around the coffee table and made his way to the door.

“You have no explanation?” Sherlock asked simply. 

John stopped and looked back. His face was shuttered, closed in. “I’m not going to try to excuse this,” he replied diffidently. 

“I’m not asking you to,” Sherlock responded; his gaze was steady. John nodded slowly. He returned to the sofa and sat down carefully, his expression thoughtful and serious. If he noticed Sherlock taking the seat opposite, he gave no sign.

John opened the parcel and gently ran the pads of his fingers over the leather cover of a large, book. It was square with a discreet gold border on the outside and a tracing of gold on the spine; a photograph album. He opened the cover and began to flip through the pages.

“So this is the reason for the radio silence today,” he said quietly, “not what happened last night,”

Sherlock said nothing. 

John narrowed his eyes; he gestured to the album. "Did you like any of them in particular?” he continued, “The ones in the shower, for example? Or perhaps the al fresco selection? No? Well, maybe the ones in the bedroom took your fancy; there’s certainly a wide selection of those!”

John’s tone was edgy and his eyes were like flint. He slammed the album down onto the coffee table and leaned his chin against one palm.

Sherlock stirred, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “I always knew these pictures had to exist, John,” he said quietly.” It was blindingly obvious from your portfolio photographs – particularly the less formal pictures – that Murray knew your body very well; intimately, in fact. Phelps has the hard copy albums of your portfolio, for business reasons, yes?” John nodded, “which was why we didn’t find any photographs at all in your flat, not even professional ones. That was slightly odd but easily accounted for. Now, these pictures,” he nodded to the album, “they had to be somewhere.”

Sherlock rose from his seat and paced the carpet. “It was clear to me from the outset that there was or had been something between you and Murray,” he continued, “although the precise nature of your relationship remained inconclusive. However, I did deduce that if you were indeed more than friends, then Murray, being the consummate artist that he is, would have found it difficult to hold back in using you as a subject. The fact that nothing more intimate than the portfolio shots had yet been uncovered during the investigation was even more telling – the pictures in this album weren’t even on your memory stick.”

John shook his head with a faint smile. “Nothing gets past you, does it?” he said bitterly.

Sherlock shook his head. “Very little,” he acknowledged with no modesty whatsoever. 

Sherlock glanced down at the photograph currently in view. The setting was a rustic-looking room with bare floorboards, white paintwork and overlong muslin curtains which dragged the floor. In the foreground was an iron bedstead made up with blinding white sheets and pillows on which reclined John Watson, prone and totally naked. The light from the window glanced over the graceful line of his back, burnishing his skin and gilding the ends of his hair. His eyes were closed, the lashes smudges of brown on delicately flushed cheeks. 

Sherlock reached out a steady hand and turned the page thoughtfully. In the next picture, John had turned over on his back, his arm over his eyes. The stretch outlined muscles and tendons over his torso, making a V over his abdomen, disappearing into a thatch of light brown hair at his groin.

“Phelps told me that Murray was in love with you,” Sherlock said quietly. 

John’s head lifted sharply. “ _Percy_ said that?” he demanded, frowning.

Sherlock nodded. “I had already deduced that from the photograph in your living room,” he continued, “but these confirm it in spades; they’re absolutely beautiful. I gather you were asleep for some of them?”

John nodded, looking back to the picture currently on show. His cheeks flushed slightly. “Alex never really stopped working,” he said. “He took hundreds of photographs of me, literally hundreds. I let him take shots of me in the shower, dressing, undressing, in bed, before sex, afterwards – you name it. I got so relaxed with him that I just didn’t care. That’s when he started getting me to pose for him. Eventually I got so blasé about it that I let him do anything he wanted. I never dreamed he’d use it against me.”

John glanced up at Sherlock and tapped the album with an index finger. “He sent this to me, you know,” he said. “He made the prints, compiled it and left it on my doormat three weeks ago. Honestly, _anyone_ could have come along and opened it.”

“You mean Phelps could have,” Sherlock corrected. 

John looked rather shamefaced. “Well, yes,” he replied. “Percy – well, despite his amazing business acumen, he’s really rather naïve. He would think nothing of opening my post or sorting through my belongings. That’s why I don’t have much of my own here; most of my stuff is still in storage since before I joined up.”

“You began your sexual relationship with Alex Murray in Afghanistan,” Sherlock prompted, “but when you returned to England, you resisted his attempts to pick up where you left off, yes?”

“God, yes,” John replied. “It was dodgy enough in a war zone – I felt bad about that, Alex was my patient – but once we’d met up again and Percy was re-inventing me for the media, not to mention meeting Mary, it just wasn’t worth the risk.”

“So what made you change your mind?” Sherlock asked coolly.

John stared. “God, how do your friends cope with this?” he asked rhetorically then shrugged. “Mary,” he said succinctly without waiting for an answer; he folded his hands.

“Mary is…” John paused then chuckled, “quite a girl, if the truth were ever known. She seems so untouched and innocent – she certainly had me fooled.” He shook his head then focussed back on Sherlock.

“Mary is what would be termed in my youth as a Good Time Girl,” John told him. “She always officially lived at home with her parents, but she had the use of one of Percy’s luxury flats for business reasons – not in the same premises as mine, of course – and boy, did she use it! By the time I realised the lie of the land, I was so deep into the situation in all respects that I couldn’t get out without the whole thing crashing down around me.”

“So you went along with a public engagement and allowed Mary to use you as an alibi,” Sherlock finished. John nodded seriously.

“And that’s when you rekindled your affair with Alex Murray?” 

John nodded again. “On the rebound, I suppose,” he sighed. “It was totally the wrong thing to do. Alex was too unstable still, and he was using again.”

John leaned forward in his seat urgently. “I want you to believe me – it’s over between Alex and me,” he said, “I should never have got his hopes up, it was stupid and cruel and I’m not proud of it, but for what it’s worth, Sherlock, it’s over for good this time.” 

John shook his head wonderingly and lowered his eyes. “I thought he was coping,” he said quietly. “Oh, he was angry with me occasionally for messing him about – quite rightly – but he was moving on, taking on new projects and he’d signed on at a clinic I recommended to deal with his addiction problems. He was due at his first appointment yesterday…” John trailed off miserably. 

“Did you ever suspect that Phelps knew about you and Murray?” Sherlock ventured.

John gave a huff of laughter. “Percy would have gone ape if he’d known,” he said, “He was possessive enough over me when he introduced me to Mary. If he’d known I was bi and in a relationship with a male business associate, he’d have flipped.”

“And yet he suspected enough to dig up your past history in the army and at uni?” Sherlock argued. He shook his head. “That must have taken a considerable amount of effort. No, John, he _had_ to have known. In fact, I think he made it his business to know as much about you as possible.”

“What do you mean?” John frowned. Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph he had taken from the flat in Hampstead.

As John studied the picture, his eyes widened and the colour drained out of his skin. He pointed to the blonde boy. “But – that’s…?” he began. 

Sherlock nodded seriously. “The resemblance is really quite striking,” he replied. 

John put the photograph down. “What is going on here, Sherlock” he asked helplessly, “seriously, what?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know,” he lied.


	14. Chapter 14

The taxi journey between Baker Street and John’s Hampstead flat was a ten minute ride. Sherlock claimed to have an errand in the general direction and insisted on sharing.

“Are you sure you’re not just being sentimental?” John asked him with a faint smile, “You know – seeing me home in a gentlemanly fashion after letting me down gently?”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock replied stiffly. “’Letting you down’ implies I undertook to perform some kind of task for you which I failed to do. Offhand, I don’t recall any such occasion, do you, John? And certainly not gently. Besides, I am never sentimental.”

John gave him a very old-fashioned look which Sherlock returned steadily until the other man looked away.

“Well, I suppose this is it, then?” John sighed, his face tight and unhappy. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his jacket and hunched down into his collar even though the cab was warm.

Sherlock sat diagonally, unfolding his long legs as comfortably as he could over his side. “Certainly not,” he replied briskly. “Lestrade will keep you informed of our progress, just as soon as there’s anything to report.”

John turned his head to look out of the window for a beat or two, then drew a fast breath and turned back. 

“Do you think that photograph you found has any link at all with Mike’s murder?” he asked. 

“What put that idea into your head?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “There’s just so much that doesn’t make any sense,” he replied slightly desperately. “I feel almost as though tying some of those loose ends together might suddenly produce a pattern…” He trailed off miserably.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, “sometimes things just don’t work out, however much you want them to.” 

Sherlock feared for a moment that he had said too much. John stared at him. He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again, apparently thinking better of it.

“I just wish I could understand,” he said instead. “There must be some history to that photograph, some significance to that uncanny resemblance to me. Who are those two men and what connection do they have with Percy?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I‘m not convinced that it’s in any way relevant,” he said, “and we can’t be sure the picture actually belongs to Phelps at all, but even supposing it does, there has to be a logical explanation. I’d let it slide for now if I were you; there are more important things on the horizon. Oh, by the way, once I can return your photo album, I’ll get it back to you in the post. In the meantime, good luck, John. It was good to make your acquaintance.”

John nodded without smiling. “The pleasure was all mine,” he replied. 

The taxi signalled to pull into Tennyson Avenue and drew up outside the flat. John reached for the door handle then turned back to Sherlock.

“I guess we probably won’t meet again,” he said unnecessarily.

“I don’t suppose we will,” Sherlock replied. He held out a hand. “Well, I must be off now. Good luck, John Watson.” 

John stared at him for a moment then grasped the proffered hand and wrung it silently. He turned to go then paused and swung back before opening the door.

“Oh, by the way,” he said suddenly, “about the album.” 

“Yes?” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “Don’t bother sending it to this address – I won’t be here.”

“Oh?” Sherlock replied, eyebrows raised. 

John nodded. ”Yes,” he confirmed, “You know I told you I went to Chichester to sort out my priorities? Well, I neglected to mention that I made some decisions while I was there; that’s what today’s meeting was about. I’ve quit, Sherlock; I’m out. I’m going back into real medicine, possibly abroad – I don’t know. It depends on what’s available and if I escape prosecution for my part in Mary’s problems.”

“What about Murray and the morphine?” Sherlock asked.

John’s mouth set in a line. “I’ve warned you once about that already, Sherlock,” he replied, “I give you my word, I never supplied Alex Murray with anything illegal and he never told me anything about his supplier; at least he granted me that much immunity from his problems.”

John looked away. “Mary is no longer my responsibility,” he said, “and beyond giving Alex the support he needs to make a full recovery, I don’t consider I owe him anything either.” 

John gave a relieved sigh and a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t bother returning the album,” he said, “I don’t want it. Give it back to Alex, or keep it yourself if you’d rather.” He grinned suddenly. “Think of it as a memento of something that might have been.”

John gave Sherlock a mocking salute, left the taxi and turned his back to walk up the path to his flat. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes then tapped on the window and gave the cabbie his instructions.

 

John closed the front door and leaned his back against it, closing his eyes momentarily in weariness. He inhaled preparatory to a deep sigh and his eyes shot open wide.

_God, what’s that smell? Some kind of fuel oil – is there a leak somewhere? Hang on, nothing in this flat works on oil. Just a moment; that’s petrol. What the…?_

He rushed into the living room and skidded to a halt in the middle of the floor.

“Good evening, John.”

Percival Phelps sat in the best armchair angled to look out of the front window at the view over London. He had his back to John and seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be perfectly relaxed.

“Percy!” John stuttered. “What’s going on?”

Percival Phelps rose from the armchair and turned towards John. He was smiling genially but there was something odd about his eyes.

“Why, nothing, John,” he replied, “nothing unusual at all, just the logical conclusion to our little association.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a silver cigarette case with a Gucci logo. John’s brain slammed into gear.

“No, no!” he held his hands out. “For God’s sake, don’t even think of smoking in here – there’s a really strong smell of petrol…”

John’s voice trailed away as he glanced quickly around the apartment and took in the dark stains on the upholstery and curtains, the puddles of liquid on the floor and the empty jerrycan on its side under the table.

“Percy?” he repeated uncertainly.

Phelps nodded almost apologetically; his eyes were so dark they were almost black with only a thin rim of brown around the hugely dilated pupils.

“It’s the only way now, John,” he said earnestly, “you have to see that.”

Phelps withdrew a matching lighter from the other pocket and toyed with it. John’s hair almost literally stood on end at the sight.

“Please,” he managed on a dry mouth. 

Phelps shook his head. “I tried, John,” he said mournfully, “Oh, I really tried, but they took you away from me, you see. I would have kept you safe, but they wouldn’t let me see you.”

John frowned. “Who wouldn’t let you see me?” he asked puzzled. “Percy, you’re not making much sense. Is this about Mary?”

“Mary?” Phelps repeated blankly then his eyes sharpened. He made a dismissive gesture, “That little tart? Oh, I knew all about her, John; all the casual liaisons, all the one night stands. You could never have slept with her. God, no! I suppose I could have endured a marriage of convenience between you as camouflage, but it could never have been a long-term solution: for some unfathomable reason you always cared about her too much. You’re a very loyal person, John Watson; you don’t give up on people. Take Alex Murray, for example.”

“What about Alex?” John demanded. Phelps gave him a very old-fashioned look.

“Murray was your lover, John,” he said gently, “both in Afghanistan and later when you returned to England.”

John stared, nonplussed and then snapped his fingers. “The photographs!” he exclaimed. “You went through my post!”

“Of course I did!” Phelps betrayed his first signs of anger. “I’m sorry I had to look at those things, John; you must have been horrified to receive them. It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help yourself – he led you astray, the ingrate; those filthy, _filthy_ things he made you do, the poses he made you assume, and all for his own perverted enjoyment!”

“Now just a minute!” John began. 

Phelps steamrollered him. “He was bad for you, John,” he continued urgently, “rotten to the core. I told him so, I warned him to keep his distance. I told him he was dragging you down, that if there was any justice in the world, he should have died of his addiction in Afghanistan.”

“You did what?” John said slowly, uncomprehendingly.

“It’s a pity he didn’t do the job properly when he overdosed,” Phelps continued, blithely unaware of John’s horror. “The stuff I gave him was much stronger than his usual formulation; it should have stopped his heart. He must have cut down on the amount, perhaps out of some misguided attempt at damage limitation. Still, there’s always another time and besides, it’s not so urgent now. You finished with him, didn’t you, John?”

“Yes,” John nodded slowly, his brain racing ahead. “I told him it was over, that I didn’t want to see him again. It’s okay, Percy; you don’t need to worry about Alex anymore.”

“But it’s not just Murray, is it, John?” Phelps spread his hands in frustration, “it’s that private detective, that _Sherlock Holmes_ man now. I never imagined you would be so sexually incontinent that I would be left picking up the pieces like this.”

John’s eyes were very wide. Phelps looked at him and his face crumpled.

“John, John,” he said mournfully, shaking his head, “I had it all worked out. Mary would have shielded us, you know; she needed the protection as much we did. She would have married you, given us the cover we needed, and you would never have had to go back to Murray or to Sherlock Holmes.”

“What,” said John carefully, “are you talking about, Percy? You’re really not making much sense, you know.”

“I’m talking about us!” Phelps shouted. He clutched at his hair with shaking hands. “You and me, John,” he continued in a quieter voice. “They took you away and I lost you for so long. I thought about you every day – oh, Hugh, I missed you so much! – and then you came back. I couldn’t believe my good fortune; I didn’t realise how dead I had been for all those years until you brought me alive again. I knew we couldn’t risk anybody knowing about us, Hugh, not this time, so I held back, kept you at a distance. I didn’t mean to drive you away, into someone else’s arms. You had to know how I felt, how I still feel. We could have been happy …”

“Percy, I think I need to call someone,” John said, reaching for the landline, “you’re clearly not yourself.”

“Put that down,” Phelps ordered in a suddenly curt tone. John looked up, the receiver in his hand, into the barrel of a small pistol. He blinked in surprise and slowly replaced the phone, lifting his hands into the air.

“Alright, Percy,” he said quietly. “I’m just going to lower my hands to my sides now, okay? Please don’t shoot.”

It was possible that even if Phelps missed his shot, John would still die; one spark and the whole room could combust. He lowered his arms slowly, brushing his hand against the inside pocket that contained his mobile phone.

“Don’t even think about it, John,” Phelps said softly. He pointed the nose of the pistol at John’s heart and held it there, unwavering. John bit his lip and moved his hand deliberately away from his phone. He looked at the pistol and frowned as an unconnected thought crossed his mind.

“Where’s the shotgun, Percy?” he asked without thinking. 

Phelps smiled. “I stashed it at Bisley,” he replied. “It’s untraceable, but in a very few minutes that’s not going to matter much to either of us.”

“And I suppose you were also responsible for the fire-raising at Angelo’s?” John continued steadily. 

Percy frowned. “How could you?” he hissed, his suppressed anger starting to boil. “How could you hold hands in public, _in public!_ , with that – that creature!”

John shook his head. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said urgently. “You’re clearly ill; sick. I’ll vouch for you; there are people who can help. You won’t stand trial on this, Percy, believe me.”

Phelps shook his head. “No one can help me now,” he replied, brandishing the lighter.

“You are completely correct in this instance,” said a new voice, “but that does not excuse your insistence on taking another life along with your own.”

Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the hall and moved confidently into the middle of the room. He had almost reached Phelps when the nonplussed man came to his senses and jerked the pistol to aim at Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Stay where you are,” Phelps croaked, his eyes wide and mad.

Sherlock looked at the gun then slowly raised his hands. He sighed. “You’re going to make this difficult, I see,” he said calmly, “nevertheless, I’ll give it the old College try. Hand over the pistol now; this farce has gone on long enough.”

“Sherlock,” said John warningly.

“Yes, John, I’m perfectly aware of the presence of combustible fuels soaking into the carpets and soft furnishings,” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off Phelps, “However, I think we should at least try to resolve this sensibly. Give me the gun, Mr Phelps.”

Phelps stared at Sherlock and, amazingly, began to laugh. He lowered the pistol and dropped it onto the carpeted floor; John cringed reflexively, but the weapon did not discharge. Still laughing, Phelps backed away from the other two and opened the top of his cigarette lighter.

“NO!” shouted John, leaping forward with his hand outstretched. Still grinning, Phelps struck a spark and tossed the lighter onto the sofa which immediately burst into flame. John reeled back at the heat of the ignition and felt a scarf being forced into his face.

“Breathe through this!” Sherlock roared in his ear, tugging his coat collar over his own mouth. The flames leaped from sofa to carpet to chairs and coffee table. The wall hangings started to smoulder. 

Gasping through Sherlock’s scarf, scanning wildly around the room for something heavy, John snatched up a mahogany occasional table and swung it hard at the large plate glass panel in the bay window. The panel shattered into a thousand glittering pieces and oxygenated air flooded in from outside, feeding the fire into a roaring inferno. Just ahead of it burst Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at a head on run, both yelling at the tops of their voices as they threw themselves bodily out of the shattered window into the night. Kicking and screaming, they sailed through the frozen air to land heavily in the shrubbery beneath.

John gasped for breath, winded and wincing with pain from his left ankle. Sherlock forced himself onto his knees, shed his coat and smothered John with it until the smouldering embers on his clothes had died out. Their faces were both reddened by the heat and blackened with ash, their hair singed. The orange light of the fire flickered in John’s eyes as he stared back up at the first floor window.

“Oh, God!” he muttered, sucking absently at a scratch on the back of his hand. Sherlock followed John’s horrified gaze to see Percival Phelps standing at the broken window. He was looking down into the garden at their upturned faces and as they stared transfixed, he stretched out a hand.

“Goodbye, John,” Phelps’ lips framed the words, then a sudden roar of flame from the flat engulfed him, setting fire to his hair and clothing and belching hot air and ash into the street. Phelps screamed once, an ugly, animal shriek of agony. Sherlock and John turned their faces from the wave of superheated air and when they looked again, Phelps was gone. 

Wide-eyed, John stared at Sherlock and shook his head in disbelief.

Sherlock shrugged but his manner was grave. “Totally insane, I’m afraid,” he said sombrely. “Driven over the edge by a series of events he had no control over, but I expect we’ll find that he was always unstable.” 

John shook his head. “I knew he was eccentric,” he said wonderingly, “but never unbalanced.” He shivered. “I had no idea he was so – fixated. It’s a sobering thought.”

Sherlock nodded then reached out a hand out to John. The other man looked up at him for a moment, then took the proffered support and rose slowly to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ankle. He patted himself down absently and withdrew his shattered mobile phone from his jacket pocket. He shook his head mournfully.

“Beyond repair,” he stated. “Screen’s cracked and the casing’s splintered; must have absorbed some of the impact.”

“Get it fixed,” Sherlock told him immediately.

“Why?” John was surprised, “Cheaper to get a new one, I should think.”

Sherlock gave a brief smirk. “Sentimentality – understandable, if you like that sort of thing,” he replied. “How do you think I knew what was happening to you? Next month’s account is likely to be rather steep, however.”

John turned his head as he smiled. “I think that might be the least of my worries,” he stated drily. 

John shifted to look up at the burning building and a harsh gasp of pain escaped him. “I’ll need to get my ankle looked at,” he said between clenched teeth. Sherlock stared back, puzzled.

“But surely you know enough first aid to sort it out yourself,” he said. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” 

John turned his head away to hide a smile.

“Ever heard the saying ‘Physician, heal thyself’, Sherlock?” he asked leaning heavily on the other man’s arm as they limped away from the fire.

“Probably,” Sherlock replied dismissively, “Irrelevant, so I expect I deleted it.”

In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard heralding the approach of the Emergency Services.


	15. Chapter 15

John Watson eyed the stairs at 221B Baker Street and sighed inaudibly. 

Mrs Hudson clucked and fussed around him. “Oh, don’t worry about the crutches, dear,” she said, easily, “I’ll bring them up once we’ve got you safely upstairs, now up we go!”

She took his arm with surprising strength for a slightly-built woman of advancing years and supported him while he hopped inelegantly up to the first floor, keeping his weight firmly away from his broken ankle.

“I should be getting a walking cast later on this afternoon,” he told her between gritted teeth. “The leg won’t bear my weight unaided for another month at least, but my employers are keen to get me shipped back to Helmand asap. Experienced medical personnel not already in the armed forces are very thin on the ground over there and they want to get me reintegrated quickly.”

Mrs Hudson paused, a frown gathering over her eyes. “You do realise he’s not at home at the moment, don’t you?” she said anxiously. “I did explain…”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” John paused to catch his breath. “I’m prepared to wait.” He shrugged at her concerned expression.

“I know it could be a long time,” John continued, “but I’m leaving the country at the end of the week and I never got a chance to thank him for saving my life.” He gave a wry smile. “I know he set me up and it nearly killed both of us, but if he hadn’t risked his life to be there I’d never have survived.”

Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically as she opened the door to the living room of 221B.

“I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, dear,” she said, guiding him over to an armchair by the fireplace.

 

The hours went by marked only by the ticking of the clock and the variation in traffic along Baker Street. Mrs Hudson brought John no less than three cups of tea together with biscuits, his crutches, a blanket for his knees which made him feel like an old man, and once the news that Emmerdale was just starting if he wanted to watch the telly. He thanked her anyway, particularly when she knelt down on the hearthrug, protesting half-heartedly about her hip, and put a match to the fire in the grate.

Something startled John out of a nap he hadn’t meant to take. It was dark in the flat and the fire was nearly out; he leaned forward with difficulty and poked at the embers, looking around for the coal scuttle.

The front door slammed and footsteps ascended the stairs rapidly, not even pausing at Mrs Hudson’s shout. The door burst open and the room shrank visibly as the presence of Sherlock Holmes suddenly seemed to fill every available corner.

John smiled. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said quietly. He gestured to his injured leg. “Please excuse me if I don’t get up,” he continued. “I’ve been told to keep a low profile until I get my walking cast.” He shrugged, “Should have got it this afternoon, but some ignorant tosser decided to keep me waiting.”

Sherlock skewered John with a piercing gaze then abruptly turned into the kitchen. John heard him clattering around the detritus on the kitchen table.

“If you had informed me of your intention to visit,” Sherlock replied loftily, “I could have arranged to be at home.” 

John gave a half smile and shook his head. “Sherlock,” he said, “you knew I’d be here; don’t try to weasel out of this one. You knew that if you carried on avoiding me, sooner or later I’d turn up at Baker Street. My lawyer tells me I’m free to leave the jurisdiction and I’m being deployed in a couple of days – don’t try to tell me that’s news to you. This was likely the last chance I’d get to say goodbye. Of course I’d be here today.”

Sherlock came back into the living room at a slower pace. “I had a case,” he said defensively, “A drowning in Teddington Lock, suspected foul play.” He tossed a folder negligently in John’s direction.

John picked up the packet curiously and withdrew a number of photographs featuring the relatively intact body of a middle-aged man, fully clothed and clearly just removed from fresh water, soaked through and stained with weed and mud. He leafed through the pictures, focussing in on the close-ups of the head and neck area. He gave a huff of grim laughter and looked up to find Sherlock leaning across him to examine the photograph.

“Look,” John said, pointing, “I suppose Lestrade’s SOCOs thought that ligature mark meant the victim was partially strangled then dumped in the water and left to drown?” He indicated a horizontal stripe around the deceased’s neck. 

Sherlock nodded, snorting derisively. “Anderson again,” he said with contempt. 

John nodded. “Admittedly, it’s not completely obvious,” he continued, turning the photo ninety degrees to the right, “and, to be fair, I have seen something like this _post mortem_ before, but this mark was clearly inflicted considerably prior to the victim’s death; possibly as much as two days prior and maybe even with the victim’s consent – look, there’s nothing here consistent with a struggle.” John displayed another photograph, this time of the victim’s hands.

John turned to smile crookedly at Sherlock. “We could possibly be looking at some kind of erotic asphyxiation here – was he a gasper, do you know? – although I might well be reaching with that one. Now, this, however,” he leafed through and selected another close-up, this time of a small contusion on the back of the head, “this is different. Above the hairline and really so tiny it could almost be missed. I’d be willing to bet he had a pre-existing fracture or a thin spot in his skull exactly there which gave way when he tripped and fell, striking his head on the edge of the towpath. He’d have been unconscious within moments and his momentum would have carried him into the water.” 

John looked back up at Sherlock and handed him the photographs. “It wasn’t murder,” he said decisively.

“Of course, it wasn’t murder,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at John, “Police can’t see further than their own noses.”

John smiled faintly. “And I suppose you told them exactly that?” he replied. 

Sherlock muttered something indistinct. 

John’s smile widened. “And Lestrade’s reaction was…?”

Sherlock flashed him a look of dislike. “He threw me off the case and banned me,” he admitted reluctantly. He shrugged. “He’ll come round. He always does, especially when something really puzzling comes up.”

John shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said half in censure, half admiring.

“You like it,” Sherlock said suddenly. He looked directly at John in challenge.

John nodded slowly. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully, “I do like it.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Sherlock said, “because you like me and because you’re going away, perhaps to an uncertain future.” 

John winced. “I don’t have a death wish, Sherlock,” he protested, “and I have every intention of keeping my skin intact.” 

Sherlock made a rude noise. “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “If you wanted to keep safe you’d stay here in London – although with the state of the traffic nowadays you’d probably be safer in Sanjin at that.”

John stared. “How did you know I’m being sent to Helmand Province?” he demanded, sitting forward in his chair. At Sherlock’s steady gaze he sighed and relaxed again. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, “Mycroft, of course.”

“Actually Lestrade,” Sherlock levered himself into the other armchair and looked up over steepled fingers, “although I suspect Mycroft was at the bottom of it.” He reached for his laptop.

John shook himself. Talking with Sherlock was like fencing with a bad-tempered cat; there were no rules of combat and one was likely to get badly scratched for no discernable reason whatsoever.

“Anyway,” John began again, “I’ve been waiting here for several hours now to say good bye to you and to thank you for saving my life – you ran off before I could even do that, you know.”

Sherlock’s face did not even twitch; he opened his computer and clicked on his email programme.

“We never even got to discuss what happened,” John tried again. “When my flat went up in smoke, I mean.”

“No, we didn’t.” Sherlock inclined his head but otherwise remained silent. His fingers moved rapidly over the keys.

John let a beat or two go by then he pressed his lips together and gave Sherlock a hard look. “You’re making me pull teeth again,” he muttered, “Sherlock, would you please tell me about Percy. Lestrade gave me some total garbage about financial difficulties, overextension and the tragic consequences of untreated psychological problems. It was all bollocks, he knew it and so did I.”

“Percy?” queried Sherlock, “Oh, Phelps you mean. Yes – barmy, mad as a hatter.”

“Look, I know I can’t keep up with you,” John began.

“No one can,” Sherlock interrupted, still typing,

“But I really think I need to know what happened,” John persisted doggedly. Sherlock carried on typing for a while then he sighed and reluctantly closed his computer. He turned towards John.

“When Phelps was in his twenties,” Sherlock began, “he made the acquaintance of another, much younger man. Hugh Kenmore was a schoolboy at the time, barely fifteen years old, but Phelps had a relationship of sorts with him for a year or so until Kenmore’s parents found out. Kenmore was by then of age, but that didn’t stop his parents shipping him off to boarding school and taking out an injunction against Phelps having any further contact with their son. They threatened Phelps with a police investigation if he didn’t comply. Phelps was all set to defy them and be damned but Kenmore junior beat him to it. He ran away from boarding school and tried to hitch-hike home. He was unlucky; he was found dead on the motorway hard shoulder, victim of a hit and run. The driver was doing 120mph, he was six times over the alcohol limit and he received a long custodial sentence for dangerous driving.”

John winced and looked away.

“I put two and two together after reading through old police reports and matching them up with Phelps’s career moves,” Sherlock explained, “but the real breakthrough came when I happened upon that photograph of Phelps with Kenmore. The panel in the sideboard was so well-hidden I suspect Phelps forgot about it. He has a criminal record, you know; an arrest and a fine for Affray during the time Kenmore’s parents found out about their relationship. It was that which made me certain who and what the photograph was about and why Phelps was obsessed with you.”

“But why did he want to kill me?” John asked, bewildered. “If he fixated on me because of my resemblance to Kenmore, why take a shotgun to my face?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Try to keep up, John,” he said, “When you met, he immediately envisaged you as a resurrected Kenmore, reincarnated just for him. When he saw the photographs Murray had taken of you, he could no longer delude himself that you were truly the naïve schoolboy he had loved. The knowledge all but destroyed his fragile grip on reality and his obsession really started to bite.”

“So he always knew I was bi?” John said. 

Sherlock nodded. “Almost certainly,” he replied, “He was hoping to move in on you himself – as if you would ever… Never mind. No, the real problem was your pre-existing relationship with Murray; a relationship about which he had no idea until he happened upon that album.” Sherlock snorted. “Stupid! He looked but he didn’t observe. You were very poor at concealment, both of you; Murray is particularly bad at hiding his feelings and your body language was always a giveaway. You were so blindingly obvious.”

“Yet you still let me kiss you outside the restaurant in Bisley,” John said thoughtfully, “even though you believed me to be spoken for?”

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow but a faint flush crept over his jawline. “That was merely in the interests of deduction,” he declared loftily. “Until then, it was all supposition. I was unsure not only of your status but also of your orientation; I had to have proof.”

“That’s bollocks,” John spluttered. He turned his face away not quite quickly enough to hide a laugh. Sherlock made no answer.

John turned back to him. “You are joking?” he said and on receiving no response, widened his eyes. “You’re not, are you? God, Sherlock, you could cut the tension between us with a knife from the very beginning. The sparring in Lestrade’s interview room? I was surprised they didn’t hose us down!”

There was a brief silence during which Sherlock turned back to his computer. John swallowed and leaned forward.

“Sherlock,” he began awkwardly. Sherlock sighed irritably and turned back.

“What is it now?” he demanded. “Surely I’ve answered all your questions”

John nodded. “Pretty much, yeah,” he replied, “except the really important ones.”

“Oh, for the love of any deity you can think of, what is it now, John?”

John shook his head. “I won’t make excuses, Sherlock,” he began.

“Then pray don’t continue with what you were about to say,” Sherlock interrupted. 

John’s eyes widened. “You have no idea…” he began. 

Sherlock made an angry noise, pushed himself up out of his armchair and began to pace the room. “I have every idea;” he shot back, “Your innate sense of decency won’t let you leave with a clear conscience until you have in some manner unburdened yourself to me. You deliberately deceived me and you lied to me systematically – _me!_ – despite the fact that you knew a dangerous criminal was stalking you and possibly others as well. If you want Absolution, John, visit a priest; my skills in the Confessional are lamentable.”

John hung his head and made no answer.

Sherlock showed his teeth in a smile without any real humour in it. “Nothing to say? No ham-fisted attempt to justify your actions? Shall I do it for you then? It’s quite simple really,” he continued. “My inexperience made me clumsy and distracted, and my attraction to you must have been flatteringly unequivocal. It suited your purposes to disrupt my thinking processes, to try to derail me. I was also potentially a pleasant source of distraction to cement your detachment from Mr Murray – I gather he is making good progress by the way, if you are at all interested – and when I found you out and refused to play your game, you became genuinely intrigued.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and faced John. His face creased into an ironic smirk. “You came here today to say goodbye, certainly,” he said, “but I think there was a little more to it than that, wasn’t there Doctor Watson? A small part of you was up for the chance of a farewell shag; a first and last time with the great detective for whom sex has been an irrelevance since his teen years. Of course, I would jump at the chance.”

Sherlock leaned forward into John’s space. “And in addition to that, you were looking for some payback, weren’t you, John? You could scarcely miss the effect you had on me – your proximity was incredibly distracting and hugely destructive. When I came into your life, I upset the careful balance that kept your fragile house of cards upright. When it fell apart in your hands, you wanted to punish me. You were going to ensure that I could never, ever forget you; that I would be haunted by what might have been for the rest of my life.”

John had been shaking his head slowly and deliberately throughout, but at the last few words he paused and raised his eyes. “Just so,” he said, standing with difficulty to face Sherlock down. His expression was grim and he nodded. “ _Haunted by what might have been,_ ” he repeated solemnly, “Yes, I think that’s about right.”

Sherlock nodded, running his teeth over his bottom lip, noting the way John’s eyes dipped to watch. “Just so long as we’re completely clear about it,” he murmured and then kissed him.

It was open-mouthed, wet and messy and Sherlock felt like he was drowning already. He sucked in a gasping breath and shifted, knocking accidentally against John’s cast and forcing a hiss out of the other man. Sherlock bit down on the unprotected flesh between John’s neck and shoulder.

“God!” John breathed, the pain suddenly morphing into something quite different. He tore at Sherlock’s shirt, trying to reciprocate but the garment refused to give. John moaned his frustration; Sherlock ignored him, pulling hard at the neck of the thick woollen jumper, running his lips and tongue over John’s collarbone. His other hand found its way under the bottom edge of the jumper, sliding up over John’s lower back and waist. He heaved at the thick cotton of John’s shirt, yanking it free from the confines of his waistband, and thrust his hand against warm skin; John yelped into Sherlock’s mouth at the contact.

Sherlock became aware that John was trying to tug him forward into the armchair and he resisted, giving a mute negative. He detached himself sufficiently to indicate the way along the corridor to his bedroom and watched John’s eyes turn gratifyingly black.

The journey along the landing seemed frustratingly slow with John’s crutches providing an unsteady counterpoint to the furious beating of Sherlock’s heart. Once in the room, John collapsed on Sherlock’s clean although unmade bed panting and letting his crutches fall to the floor. He just had time to catch his breath then Sherlock was on him in earnest.

Clothes were ripped away where they resisted, torn when the fastenings proved stubborn. John’s already shredded jeans snagged on the cast and Sherlock tore them the length of his leg in his furious haste. John’s skin was smooth and unevenly tanned, revealed piece by piece as Sherlock stripped him bare and attacked him like a starving man. He mapped out John’s body with shaking hands, skimming the pads of his fingers over flexing muscles, brushing over erect nipples, swallowing John’s cries of protest and pleasure alike with hot lips and teeth. He ran his tongue over and into the dip of the bullet wound in John’s shoulder and felt the other man tense and writhe at the intrusion.

Sherlock didn’t care; he was alight with fever, with a heat that consumed from within. No previous experience had prepared him for this; nothing in his youthful experimentation had given him any inkling that this contact, this burning compulsion could be a part of him, could come from him.

John was weirdly quiet, his responses limited to wordless little gasps and grunts. He was passive and obedient, allowing Sherlock full access to his body, holding nothing back. When Sherlock’s fingers breached him, slick with god knows what, John arched and bit his lip against the sounds threatening to burst out of him. He tried to turn over on his belly but Sherlock prevented him, holding him down by his hips, pushing a pillow under them to hold him steady.

“Look at me,” Sherlock rasped as he lined himself up and gave an experimental thrust. John’s muscles tensed, his eyes flew wide and rolled back in his head and his breath caught hard in his throat.

 _“Look at me!”_ Sherlock repeated urgently, driving deeper. John swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively, and then he really did howl as Sherlock pushed into him to the hilt, withdrawing almost immediately only to slam back in harder this time.

Surprise and shock at the sudden invasion left John gaping like a fish as his body struggled to adjust. Sherlock took advantage of his preoccupation to hook John’s undamaged knee over his shoulder, bracing himself for the extra weight.

“Ngh,” John gasped, hands scrabbling for purchase on the slippery sheets, “Sher… agh!”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth. He changed the angle of his hips and thrust again and again; this time John’s cry sounded like a sob.

“Ah!” he shouted, “I can’t – I’m going to… Oh!”

Sherlock gripped at John’s thighs hard enough to leave bruises, straining to keep the angle constant. He watched in stunned disbelief as John suddenly shuddered and came hard, face contorted in a rictus almost of pain, before Sherlock could even get a hand on him to help him along.

The reflexive tightening of John’s body took Sherlock by surprise and he was half way through his own climax before he realised he was yelling wordless nonsense at the top of his voice, completely out of control.

_I’m ruined._

Sherlock pulled out abruptly, ignoring John’s half-hearted gasp of discomfort, and lay on his back, one arm over his eyes, panting hard. 

_What possessed me? It wasn't even safe._

John stirred and opened his eyes with apparent reluctance. He swung his legs slowly over the side of the bed and sat carefully, testing the waters. He sighed, raking a hand through his hair and stood up shakily, wincing as he did so.

Sherlock kept his eyes steadily in front of him as he rose from the bed and padded cat-like out of the room, down the corridor to the bathroom, careless in his nudity.

 

It took a lot of hot water, Sherlock was irritated to note, for him to wrap his brain around what had just happened. He scrubbed hard leaving his skin pink and glowing and his hair cleaner and better conditioned than it had been in years.

_I can’t believe he let me… John has to know that I am solitary by nature, that what happened between us was not normal for me._

Sherlock gave a particularly vicious rub to the back of his neck and winced. Looking down at his body, flushed with the heat and raw with scrubbing, he had to admit that it was probably time to stop.

_He let me take what I wanted; he didn’t protest, he didn’t struggle or try to take control. We didn't use protection..._ I _didn't use protection._

Sherlock towelled himself gingerly, wincing at the soreness of his skin. He rooted around in the bathroom cabinet for some body lotion and flinched at its sting.

_Whatever Phelps said about him, John is not sexually incontinent; he doesn’t do this lightly._

He slung the towel around his waist and stood in front of the mirror, wiping away the condensation. His image stared back thoughtfully.

_What might have been._

When he came back to his bedroom, John had gone.


	16. Chapter 16

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just give it to me!” Sherlock snapped his fingers at Lestrade impatiently, “I’ll sign it, so help me, despite the fact that it’s the most inventive piece of fiction I’ve ever seen in my life. Look, I’ve got a pen – I’ll sign!”

Lestrade grinned all over his handsome face. “Good boy, Sherlock,” he said condescendingly; Donovan didn’t bother to hide her smirk. Sherlock glared but added his signature to the document with a pressure that threatened to eat through the paper.

“Now that I’ve abandoned what was left of my moral rectitude, will you let me out of here before Mycroft destroys my flat?” he demanded. Lestrade sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” he chided, grinning broadly. “You never had any moral rectitude in the first place, we all know that. And I’m sure your brother merely has the interests of the British nation at heart, along with all life, the universe and everything. Personally, I think he’s a very brave man – wild horses wouldn’t get me into your flat at the moment, even to conduct a drugs bust, although I suspect I might uncover some very interesting things if I did.”

“Very funny, Inspector,” Sherlock responded with a glare that could freeze nitrogen, no problem. “I must ask on what possible basis could he justify a sweep for hazardous radioactive waste?”

Lestrade shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.

“Sounds reasonable to me, sir,” Donovan commented smugly.

“For once I agree,” Lestrade replied, “Perhaps you’d better get back before he has it fumigated, Sherlock?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled. 

Both men turned at a discreet knock on Lestrade’s office door. It opened and Doctor John Watson limped into the room, still on crutches and looking highly disgruntled.

Sherlock stood up, took in Watson’s physical state and smirked nastily. “I thought you were supposed to have a walking cast on two days ago?” he sneered. 

John glared venomously back. “I was,” he replied in a rather subdued fashion, “I put my recovery back a week or so by tackling a flight of stairs before I was ready.”

“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Sherlock demanded, taking John’s crutches and propping them against Lestrade’s desk. 

John sat down heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Because I couldn’t make myself heard above the sound of running water,” he replied, jaw clenched.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Unless I am very much mistaken,” he continued in a low, dangerous tone, “and as we both know, I am never wrong – you should be half way around the globe by now being shot at by religious and political fanatics.”

“That is correct,” John responded; his chin jutted out challengingly.

“So, why aren’t you?” Sherlock demanded, eyebrows raised, equally uncompromising.

John’s face turned red. He opened his mouth to deliver what was likely a blistering comeback but was forestalled by Lestrade.

“Children,” he admonished, slightly wide-eyed at the exchange. He glared at both of them individually then opened a buff-coloured file, snagging his glasses from atop a pile of books. He peered through them at Donovan who was still hovering, clearly enjoying the show.

“That will be all, Sergeant,” he said gravely. Her lips twitched but she left the room readily enough.

“Seriously, though,” John said, turning towards Sherlock, the light of battle in his eyes, “Who bolloxed this up big time for me, eh? One of you two, or that meddling brother of yours, Sherlock?”

Lestrade spread his hands wide and shook his head; Sherlock ignored the challenge, staring sightlessly at the wall with bored eyes. 

Watson’s lips thinned. "I should be in transit to Lashkar Gah by now,” he protested, “and what happens? I’m stopped by military police – _military police!_ – at Heathrow, taken aside and instructed to go home and report here today or risk – get this! – _repatriation_ from Afghanistan to answer questions in a murder investigation!”

Watson sat back in his chair. “This had better be good, Lestrade,” he told him, folding his arms belligerently.

Lestrade smoothed down the pages in front of him and removed his spectacles; his face was serious.

“Doctor Watson,” he began, “by leaving this jurisdiction, you would have forced the CPS to take action against you for certain drugs offences allegedly committed over the past three years in connection with the high-profile model Mary Morstan, who is now in rehab, and the award-winning war photographer, Alexander Murray. By preventing you from getting on that flight to Kabul, we did you a considerable favour.”

Lestrade folded his hands over the papers before him. “In other words, Doctor Watson,” he said seriously, “you’re not off the hook yet.” 

Lestrade handed John a single sheet of A4 densely covered in typescript. John’s forehead creased in concern and he lowered his eyes to the copy. 

Sherlock stirred in his chair. “What Lestrade means to say,” he said, “is that if you sign that miracle of fiction he has just presented to you loosely described as your Statement, any and all charges against you will be dropped, all your problems will magically be whisked away from under your very nose, your fairy godmother will grant your every wish and my brother Mycroft will turn into a pumpkin.” He snorted derisively. “Well, we can but hope for the latter.”

John turned incredulous eyes on Lestrade. He pointed wildly at the paper. “You want me to sign this?” he demanded. “But – it’s nonsense!”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. “I signed mine not five minutes ago.”

“But…” protested John. 

Sherlock shook his head before the other man could continue. “Resistance is futile,” he intoned solemnly. “When faced with the insurmountable might of British governmental bureaucracy, the only sensible course of action is capitulation. Sign it, John.”

John Watson stared first at Lestrade then at Sherlock. He gave a small shrug and reached inside his jacket; Sherlock produced a black Mont Blanc fountain pen without seeming to move, like a conjuring trick.

Lestrade sighed with satisfaction as he blew the ink dry and tucked Doctor Watson’s statement into his buff-coloured file with finality.

“The case of Percival Forestier Phelps is now closed,” he said, “Theatrical agent, entrepreneur and murderer, not to mention drug dealer, arsonist and suspected extortionist. Most of the details I guess we’ll never know.”

Sherlock raised expressionless eyes to the policeman. “Hasn’t this been wrapped up rather quickly, Lestrade?” he asked in apparently bored tones. 

Lestrade fixed him with a hard look and stuck out his chin. “No sense in hanging around when it’s an open and shut case,” he replied, “particularly when the perp conveniently offed himself.”

“Yes, and in a particularly showy manner,” John added bitterly. “Mrs Russell is very upset at the damage, even though her flat was hardly touched and she wasn’t even home at the time.”

Lestrade had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “I’m sorry about your place, Doctor Watson,” he said ruefully.

Sherlock stirred. “Yes,” he added, “particularly as you’d only just replaced the carpet ruined in the last incident.”

Even Sherlock seemed to realise that wasn’t the most tactful comment to make under the circumstances. “Not good?” he asked John.

John blinked. “Bit not good, yeah,” he replied; Lestrade found something extremely interesting in his desk drawer.

Sherlock glanced between the two, mildly surprised, then cleared his throat and inhaled sharply once or twice with an air of intense concentration.

“What?” demanded Lestrade, slamming his desk shut looking slightly alarmed. 

Sherlock smiled ironically. “Nothing at all, Inspector,” he replied, “unless perhaps the faint but unmistakeable odour of my brother’s interference over the fallout from this case?”

Lestrade looked away. “I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest what you mean,” he replied, rearranging a pile of files. “Now hop it, you two, before I have you arrested for loitering.”

“Business as usual, Inspector,” Sherlock Holmes slid his feet off Lestrade’s desk and stood up.

“Very well, Doctor Watson,” he said gravely, “I think that is our cue to exit.” John Watson looked around him with a clueless air.

“What?” he said, baffled. “But I thought…”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, “you will persist in believing you _can_ actually think. It’s a very bad habit – kindly leave it to those of us who are specialists. Lestrade, good afternoon; I’ve no doubt you’ll need me again the very next time you encounter something that you don't understand, which, let’s face it, will not take long.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve of his coat and hauled him to his feet.

“Wait, wait!” protested John, grabbing for his crutches. 

Sherlock waited impatiently in the corridor. “I haven’t got all day,” he said testily. 

John raised mutinous eyes as they drew level. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?” he said. 

Sherlock smiled. “Because you want to know the answers to too many questions to let me leave here without answering them,” he replied. He smirked at John’s furious glare but turned on his heel, confident that the other man would follow.

 

Bounding onto the pavement outside Scotland Yard, Sherlock immediately hailed a taxi and beckoned impatiently as John made his way out more slowly. John clambered into the back seat, whacking Sherlock in the shins more or less accidentally with his crutches.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie.

“What?” protested John, “I’m not going back to that public health hazard you live in!”

Sherlock turned to glare at him. “My flat is not a public health hazard,” he said gravely, “at least, not anymore, and considering your latest abode is currently a burnt out shell and you have been living in a hotel ever since, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on, do you?”

“Oh, ha very ha, Sherlock,” John said sourly, “And anyway, my hotel is very nice; it has a sauna _and_ a steam room.” 

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “Hotels are never nice,” he declared, “They merely fulfil a function either badly or tolerably.”

“Well, I’m perfectly happy in mine, thank you, “John objected, more for form’s sake than anything else. “I’m still quite wealthy, you know, despite the film star lifestyle I’ve been leading.”

Sherlock snorted. “Just shut up and concentrate on keeping those crutches over your side of the cab.”

 

As he walked over the threshold at 221B, John’s jaw dropped. The boxes and piles of equipment had been tidied and filed away, the hazardous waste had been magically removed, Sherlock’s violin lay resplendent in its case on top of the bookcase and his music was displayed artistically on the stand. The tired old armchairs had been given a new lease of life with bright new cushions and there was a cosy fire burning in the grate.

As he stood and stared, Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tray of tea.

“Nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” she said with a knowing smile. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to move in some time over the weekend?” 

John gave a puzzled frown. “Ah, did Sherlock say something to you about me, then?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson was too busy pouring the tea, plumping up the cushions and kissing Sherlock gently on the cheek in a motherly fashion to reply. Sherlock seemed to endure it without complaint, something which John found quietly amusing.

“Now then, boys,” Mrs Hudson said, “no all-night parties or riotous behaviour – and you’ll stop him from shooting the walls again, won’t you, Doctor Watson?”

“Of course he will, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted testily, “that’s what I’m keeping him for.”

Her girlish laughter floated back up the stairs. John stared, opened his mouth then sighed and sat down to drink his tea; sometimes the line of least resistance was the safest.

Silence fell for a while as John contemplated the flickering flames in the grate and Sherlock paced about taking stock of various experiments and checking his email. For a long while, all that could be heard was the clatter of keys and the occasional snort of disgust.

“So what am I doing here, Sherlock?” John asked after a while. He looked at the other man.

Sherlock frowned. “I thought I made it perfectly plain,” he replied. “You’re moving in here with me. You don’t think Mrs Hudson and Mycroft’s minions cleared all my stuff up and cleaned the place for my sake alone, do you? Not to mention smoothing the way over that little matter of over-prescription.”

John chuckled and shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose they did,” he replied. “So we’re flat-sharing, then?”

“That would seem to be the plan, yes,” Sherlock replied. The unspoken “your brain works at the speed of a snail” hung in the air.

“On what basis?” John persisted.

Sherlock paused, looked down at his feet and exhaled heavily. “On whatever basis you want,” he replied in a low voice. He looked up again.

“I’m not good at this, John,” Sherlock said. “You heard what Phelps had to say about me. I won’t deny any of it; it’s all true – the psych reports, the appalling behaviour at Oxford, the body parts – none of it was inaccurate in the slightest. Oh, except that bit about the arson case. I know better than to get caught fire-raising; that wasn’t me, it was Mycroft.”

“Your brother?” John said.

“Mycroft is my brother, yes,” Sherlock replied testily and then relented, “Alright, I’ll tell you about it sometime. It’s one of the few occasions I have ever had the privilege of genuinely laughing at him.” 

Sherlock expelled a breath of air. “What I’m trying to say is,” he continued in slightly muffled tones, “I’d be happy to flat-share with you on whatever basis you like. We can co-habit and ignore each other’s existence if you want. We can greet each other politely on the stairs, or we can share the groceries and the bills. We can lead separate lives, or you can help me with my work – it’s up to you.”

“And the other night? In your bed?” John queried in a neutral tone. 

Sherlock swallowed and looked away. “We don’t have to do that again,” he said quietly, “but I won’t be looking elsewhere if it can’t happen with you.”

_Haunted by what might have been._

It wasn’t much but this was Sherlock Holmes and it was more of an apology than anyone else had ever managed to wring out of him. John seemed to realise this; he was silent for a few moments. 

“I didn’t lie to you, you know,” John said finally into the quiet of the flat. “I did what I had to do to protect Mary and Alex – for god’s sake, I hardly knew you. I could scarcely bare my soul on what was little more than a first meeting.” He sighed. “You weren’t exactly encouraging either.”

Sherlock bowed his head. “I was angry,” he admitted. “I hurt you.”

John nodded. “You did,” he replied thoughtfully, “and now you’re asking me to pull out of _Medecin sans Frontieres_ and stay here with you in Britain. That’s a pretty big ask, Sherlock. I mean, I’ll be unemployed.” 

“I know that,” Sherlock replied, “and you have no real reason to trust me after what I… what with our history of doubt and suspicion.”

“I do though,” John blurted. 

Sherlock smirked. “Of course you do,” he replied loftily.

“Wanker,” John responded with no heat and chucked a cushion with a Union Jack cover. Sherlock ducked neatly and took refuge behind the other armchair.

“How could I help you with your work?” John asked, returning to some semblance of seriousness.

Sherlock abruptly lit up. He paced around the living room. “You’re an army doctor used to violence and mayhem on a daily basis,” he replied. “I need an assistant who isn’t too annoyingly stupid, both at crime scenes and elsewhere. You’ve proved you can think out of the box – those photographs from the Teddington drowning are a case in point. I can’t think of anyone better qualified. And also,” Sherlock added, stopping his pacing to stare at John, “you’re a fellow addict.”

John frowned. “Just how do you work _that_ one out?” he demanded. 

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve been bored out of your skull with television medicine,” he replied, “but your shoulder wound means you wouldn’t pass the physical for active service; that’s why you elected to work for _Medecin Sans Frontieres_ – just to get back onto the front line. John, you were never traumatised by your war experiences, _you miss them!_ ”

John stared. Sherlock crouched down at John’s feet, gripping the man’s knees with his hands.

“You’ve seen first-hand the kind of mayhem that makes up my life,” Sherlock continued. “You can have a share in it, if you want. I need a colleague, a partner if you prefer. I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud; the skull just attracts attention. And I need someone to watch my back – things can get very dangerous at times. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that you’re a crack shot either, John.”

John’s eyes were suspiciously bright. Sherlock raised his head to meet John’s eyes and a flicker of a smile played round his lips. John placed his hands carefully over Sherlock’s and the other man’s fingers curled tentatively around his.

“You just said ‘dangerous’,” John replied, unable to prevent his smile breaking out into a broad grin, “and here I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER ALERT: No one writes in a vacuum and tribute should always be paid to any contributing material. Nods to A Study in Pink and other Sherlock episodes for quotes from dialogue, but the major influence here is the wonderful 1944 noir film "Laura" directed by Otto Preminger and starring Gene Tierney, Dana Andrews and Clifton Webb. The title is taken from the script.


End file.
